VERSE 


WHAT  CAN  I  DO  FOR  BRADY  ? 


AND  OTHER  VERSE 


CHARLHS  F.  JOHNSON 

TRINITY  COLLEGE 
HARTFORD 


NEW    YORK 

THOMAS  WHITTAKbK 
2  and  3  Bible  House 

1897 


'/'-? 


Copyright   1897 

by 
CHARLES  F.  JOHNSON 


Printed  by 
CLARK  &  SMITH 
HARTFORD,  CONN. 


CONTENTS 


BLANK  VERSE 
What  Can  I  Do  for  Brady  ? 
Heredity,  . 

St.  Ignatius,          . 


5 
22 

30 


MISCELLANEOUS 

After  the  Crime,   .... 

The  Fossil  Fern,   .... 

London,     ...... 

The  Modern  Drama, 

To  W.  H.. 

The  Hours,  .... 

The  Fisherman's  Daughter, 

The  Fire  Flies  and  the  Stars, 

Then  and  Now,  .... 


35 
36 
37 
39 
40 
41 
42 
43 
45 


Contents 


Night  (From  the  French), 

The  Elm  Tree  (From  the  French). 

The  Sculptor. 

•• 'Tis  Folly  To  Be  Wise," 

Love's  Light, 

Love's  Service.    . 

The  Shakesperean  Phrase, 

Requiescat. 

The  Warp  and  Woof. 


47 
48 
49 
52 
53 
54 
56 
58 
60 


SONNETS 


The  Outer  Sea.     . 
Act  and  Deed. 
Iceland.     .        ,    .• 
Modern  Thought, 
The  Sky. 
Science, 
The  New  Faith, 
Two  Types, 


63 
64 
65 
66 
67 
63 
69 
70 


Contents 

Man  Proposeth.    ......         71 

Moriturus,  • .  .  .  .  .  .72 

Evolution,  ......         73 

History  and  Poetry,          .....         74 

Sir  Walter,  .  .  ...         75 

Two  Poets.  .....         76 

The  Globe  Theatre,  .....         77 

The  Old  and  the  New  Self,  .  78 

Love  and  Memory,  .  .  .  .  .79 

"  Was  1  Content  Before  ?  "  80 


HUMOROUS 

Sonnets  to  Satan,  No.  1,  83 

No.  2,  .         84 

No.  3,  .         85 

No.  4,  .         36 

No.  5,  .                                       .87 

No.  6.  .88 

No.  7.  89 


Contents 

Sonnets  to  Satan,  No.  8,  .         90 

No.  9,  91 

Answer  from  Satan,           .             .  92 

Legend  of  a  Good  Woman,           .             .  .93 

The  Fate  of  the  Spring  Poet.        .  .         96 

The  Honest  Man  and  the  Phrenologist,  .             .         97 

The  Marryin'  of  Danny  Deever.  .             .         98 
A  Letter  and  Answer,        .....       ICO 

The  Modern  Romans,       .             .  .       102 
The  Greco-Trojan  Game,              ....       104 

The  Origin  of  Credit,         .  .110 

On  a  Christmas  Box  of  "  Henry  Clays,"  .       114 

The  Perfect  Horse,            .             .  .116 

Sonnet  in  the  "  Obscure  Style,"               .  .             .117 

To  the  Earth  in  January.              .  .             .118 

The  Emu's  Party  (For  the  Children),      .  .119 

Time  and  I.  123 


To  Woolsey  McAlpine  Johnson 
and  Jarvis  McAlpine  Johnson : 


Dear  Boys, 

I  inscribe  this  book  to  you  partly  because 
I  wish  to  and  partly  because  one  of  you  made  several  years 
ago  such  a  surprisingly  just  criticism  when  he  said  that 
"  Papa's  poetry  was  dethidedly  amateurish."  I  hope  that  in 
after  years  you  may  find  that  it  is  at  least  amateurish  of 
the  good. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

Charles  F.  Johnson 


Trinity  College 
October,   1897 


PART   I. 
BLANK   VERSE 


WHAT  CAN  I  DO  FOR  BRADY? 

TO  Saratoga,  when  the  streets  are  full 
Of  noisy,  showy,  idle  people,  who 
Pursue  amusement  with  a  frantic  zeal, 
And  fly  from  place  to  place  at  stated  days, 
Migrating  always  with  the  multitude, 
Impelled  by  some  strange  instinct  of  their  kind, 
Like  that  which  draws  the  swarms  of  flimsy  gnats 
To  dance  an  hour  in  sunlit  summer  air 
Beneath  a  certain  tree  and  then  disperse, 
There  come  the  members  of  the  "  Congresses  " 
To  read  their  papers  on  "  applied  finance," 
Or  "  Social  Science,"  or  some  "  ology." 
Strange  mixture  this,  yet  by  some  hidden  law, 
Wisdom  is  drawn  to  folly,  those  who  know 
And  those  who  do  not,  meet  each  other  there, 
In  that  gay  summer  city  of  the  north. 

The  "  Social  Science  Congress  "  was  addressed 

By  one  who  sank  his  shafts  in  mountains  of 

Statistics  ;  cut  the  strata  here  and  there, 

And,  by  mechanical  appliances, 

Raised  optimistic  ore  from  out  the  mass, 

And  analysed  it  by  his  formulas, 

Proving  his  points  by  accurate  per  cents, 

That  made  one  doubt.     In  summing  up,  he  said, 

That  "  progress  dates  from  some  catastrophe," 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

That  "  at  some  point  the  balanced  forces  clash, 
Surmount  the  law  of  quiet  ordered  working  ; 
Then  there  is  war ;  the  fittest  law  survives, 
The  old  one  dies,  dies  hard  perhaps,  struggles 
In  death,  and  that  we  call  a  revolution. 
For  progress  must  be  bought  by  blood  of  men, 
Thus  has  it  been  since  Calvary,  and  thus 
It  must  be  while  the  earth  revolves,  and  men 
Are  men,  till  evolution  ceases,  chilled 
In  universal  death — the  age  of  ice. 
We  cannot  hasten  and  we  cannot  stop 
The  progress  of  the  world-democracy, 
Nor  make  a  battle  harmless  to  the  host 
When  principles  contend." 

Among  his  hearers  sat  a  working  man. 

Worn-out  and  old,  his  fingers  crooked  and  gnarled, 

His  shoulders  bent.     He  listened  patiently, 

A  hint  of  quiet  scorn  about  his  mouth, 

Until  that  fell  word,  "  war,"  rang  out,  and  then 

His  dull  eye  glowed,  a  dark  sinister  flame 

That  hardly  reached  the  surface,  but  it  made 

The  man  another  creature,  full  of  hate 

And  deadly  energy,  until  he  seemed 

The  only  vital  force  within  the  room, 

Full  of  professors  and  their  platitudes. 

The  session  over,  I  addressed  the  man ; 

He  seemed  to  promise  something  real,  and  I 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Was  weary  of  the  theorists,  and  their 
Percentages  and  scientific  pose. 
Some  talk  on  minor  things  we  had,  and  then 
Sat  down  beneath  a  broad  veranda,  where 
We  overlooked  a  brilliant  pageant,  men 
And  women  fair  to  see,  some  faces  base 
And  some  refined  ;  a  sight  to  make  one  sigh 
And  smile,  then  sigh  again  more  bitterly. 

And  then  I  said  ,  "An  able  paper  that, 

And  clear,  but  yet  I  doubt  not  we  shall  move 

On  to  some  future  social  state  without 

A  war.     The  day  for  wars  has  past,  and  we 

Move  slowly,  but  through  peace,  to  better  things." 

The  old  man  answered  warmly,  "  Three  long  days 

I've  listened  in  that  hall  to  wise  men  talk, 

And  but  one  point  was  made,  worth  serious  thought, 

And  that  was  when  he  said,  '  blood  must  be  shed.' 

Religious  freedom  came  through  war  ;  through  war 

Men  broke  the  yoke  of  tyranny  in  France, 

And  now  the  industrial  yoke  bears  hard  on  men. 

Conditions  are  the  same — nay  worse,  far  worse." 

"  But  surely,  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  do  not  think  ? — 

But  pardon  me,  I  do  not  know  your  name." 

"  John  Brady,  sir."     "  But  surely,  Mr.  Brady,  you 

Don't  mean  to  say  that  in  our  country  here 

The  working  men  are  ready  for  revolt  ?  " 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Mr.  Brady 

"  I  do,  and  what  is  more,  I  know  ;  for  I 

Am  one.     For  thirty  years  I've  spent  my  days 

In  making  lead — white  lead — and  now  I  say, 

Our  worn-out  social  system  never  can 

Grow  better,  since  'tis  worse  with  every  year. 

Twas  based  on  justice  once,  but  now  is  old. 

A  class  has  formed — the  moneyed  class ;  its  ranks 

Grow  close,  its  institutions  spread — as  banks 

And  companies  and  trusts.     The  ablest  men 

The  nation  can  produce  give  it  their  lives 

And  services  in  law  and  politics  ; 

It  holds  the  highways  with  a  single  aim 

To  levy  toll.     It  has  no  sympathy  ; 

It  is  a  foreign  power  that  knows  no  bond 

To  those  not  of  it.     Thus  the  working  men 

Are  forced  to  organize  ;  the  employing  class 

Then  say, '  We  are  the  nation,  let  the  herd 

Obey  the  law,  they're  not  of  us  nor  we 

Of  them.'     The  working  men  are  slow  to  act, 

But  quick  to  feel  a  deep  and  dull  unrest. 

They  strike  and  fail,  to  strike  and  fail  again  ; 

They  learn  in  suffering  ;  close  up  their  ranks ; 

The  breach  grows  wider  and  distrust  more  tense  ; 

Some  little  thing  brings  on  the  crisis ;  blood 

Is  shed  ;  the  frenzy  spreads  ;  you  have  a  war." 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

The  Interlocutor 

"  To  me  it  seems  that  working  men  earn  more 

And  have  a  wider  outlook  on  the  world 

And  fuller  lives  with  every  gain  men  wrest 

From  nature's  secrets,  for  the  novel  force 

Accrues,  not  to  one  man  but  to  the  race. 

I  grant  the  rich  are  richer  than  they  were  ; 

But,  still,  more  strength  lies  in  the  working  hand, 

A  man's  worth  more  ;  thus  all  participate. 

Our  modern  system  lifts  the  mass  of  men  ; 

If  luxury  increases,  comfort,  too, 

Is  everywhere  diffused,  and  suffering 

Is  less  by  far  than  in  our  fathers'  days. 

A  civil  war  grows  out  of  positive 

Distress  and  hunger,  not  from  discontent." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  Then,  sir,  you're  wrong.    When  hostile  systems  clash. 

As  slavery  and  freedom,  right  and  wrong, 

In  any  form,  why  then  a  war  must  come  ; 

If  not  this  year,  why  then  the  next,  or  next, 

This  only  sure,  each  day  brings  on  the  day. 

I  doubt  statistics,  figures  cannot  lie — 

The  statistician  can — but  still  I'll  grant 

The  laborer  commands  more  than  he  did, 

Say,  fifty  years  ago.      He  was  content, 

Now  he  is  not.     We  have  a  theory 

In  these  United  States  that  men  are  born 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Equal  before  the  law  ;  this  we  are  taught, 
All  hold  it  as  a  truth  bred  in  the  bone, 
Tis  part  of  character,  but  when  we  find 
There  is  a  chasm  'twixt  the  rich  and  poor 
As  deep  as  that  between  the  man  and  beast, 
And  feel  our  sacred  birthright  is  denied, 
It  makes  a  wound.     This  theory  on  which 
Our  system  rests,  makes  the  American 
More  sensitive.     It  is  not  lack  of  food 
That  drives  men  to  revolt,  but  discord  deep, 
In  social  theory  and  facts  of  life. 
Freemen  rebel  because  they  are  free  men, 
But  slaves  are  happy  in  their  slavery." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  But  you  can  strike,  refuse  to  work,  and  that 
Adjusts,  though  in  a  crude  and  clumsy  way, 
Your  grievances.     Grant  that  you  lose  more  than 
You  gain  by  strikes  ;  at  least,  your  protest's  made, 
And  so  in  time  you  mould  the  world's  slow  thought : 
Opinion  founds  itself  on  concrete  fact ; 
And  wrong  cannot  endure  publicity." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  Again  I'm  forced  to  disagree.     I've  been  on  strike 
Five  times  as  man,  and  twice  as  manager. 
First  let  me  say,  we  do  not  lose  more  than 
We  gain  by  strikes  ;  whichever  way  it  ends, 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

We've  had  excitement,  we  have  lived,  been  men. 

How  much  that  means,  you  cannot  know  nor  feel. 

Perhaps  we've  lived  on  scanty  food — no  meat, 

No  sugar — but,  the  six  weeks  passed,  remained 

Alive.     Had  we  been  working,  we  could  say 

No  more  than  that — worn  out  perhaps,  but  still 

Alive,  and  six  weeks  older — that  is  all ; 

But  with  a  memory  and  consciousness 

Of  having  tried  to  help  our  class.     A  thought 

Like  that  pays  one  for  starving.     Hard  it  was 

To  hear  the  children  cry,  but  even  they 

Soon  understood  and  whimpered  quietly, 

And  tried  to  set  their  faces  like  the  men. 

Now  looking  back,  I  see,  had  we  not  struck 

The  working  men  would  be  worse  off  to-day, 

Their  hearts  more  hopeless  and  their  brains  more  dull. 

Besides,  we've  learned  to  know  each  other  well, 

For  nothing  tries  men's  mettle  like  a  strike  ; 

It  purges  all  the  traitors  from  the  band 

And  binds  true  comrades  with  a  tie  of  steel." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  But  surely,  Mr,  Brady,  you  must  own 

That  rioting  and  violence  cannot 

Promote  your  cause.     We  rest  on  law,  not  force." 

Mr.  Brady 

"The  law!    Who  makes  the  law?    Your  statutes  rest 
On  people's  wills  ;  but  let  that  pass.     A  strike 
Is  war  ;  it  should  be  under  discipline  : 


W hat  can  I  Jo  for  Brady  ? 

But  riot  hangs  about  the  skirts  of  war. 
We  must  have  discipline,  and  leaders  too, 
And  both  will  come.    Oh,  how  we  long  to  see 
A  leader,  one  of  God's  own  men,  a  man 
With  simple  aim,  who  will  take  up  and  weld 
The  loose-compacted  mass  of  working  men 
Into  a  unit !     I  shall  not  see  the  day — 
But  it  will  come — when  every  working  man 
Stands  by  his  mates,  when  treason  shall  be  death, 
And  a  new  system  rises  on  the  world. 
But  such  a  chance,  I  know  does  not  arrive 
Without  a  war  and  many  martyrs'  deaths — 
I  would  to  God  I  might  be  one." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  I  think  you  should  rejoice  that  your  long  life 
Would  end  before  that  old  barbaric  way 
Of  progress  was  retrod.     The  world  is  bad  enough 
I  fear ;  I  hope  not  bad  enough  for  that." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  Long  life  !    How  old  a  man  you  reckon  me  ?  " 

The  Interlocutor 

"  Tis  hard  to  tell.    Say  sixty-eight — or  more." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  I'm  forty-five.     I  have  not  long  to  live, 

I  am  worn  out  ;  I  do  not  fear  to  die. 

One  thing  I'm  sorry  for.     In  me  the  cause 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Will  lose  its  strongest  argument,  for  all 
The  working  men  in  seven  states  know  me  ; 
And  when  I  pass  one  in  the  streets,  I  see 
His  brows  contract,  his  hands  clench  hard,  as  if 
He  gripped  a  weapon's  hilt,  and  to  his  mate 
I  hear  him  say,  •  There's  Brady,  worn  to  death 
By  honest  work  and  cast  aside  to  die 
Like  some  old  mule  !  '    And  then  I  hear  an  oath 
Low-muttered,  and  it  warms  my  heart  to  feel 
The  cause  is  stronger.     Round  my  coffin  soon 
My  mates  will  tell  how  faithfully  I  worked, 
And  say  that  to  my  class  I  never  once 
Proved  false  in  word  or  thought." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  Your  pardon,  Sir ; 

The  storm  of  life  has  beaten  hard  on  you, 
You  have  my  sympathy  ;  but  do  not  think 
That  1  live  in  the  sun.     I  earn  my  bread 
By  work,  like  you." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  That,  Sir,  I  knew  at  once, 
Or  else  you  would  have  had  no  word  from  me." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  But  still,  in  much  I  cannot  follow  you. 
You  say,  cut  loose,  discard  the  past,  and  start 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Afresh.     But  progress  is  continuous, 

The  new  grows  from  the  old.  rests  on  the  past. 

Through  all  cross-currents,  baffling  winds,  this  world 

Moves  slowly  on,  not  by  the  definite  wills 

Or  purposes  of  men,  nor  in  a  scheme 

Which  we  can  formulate.     You  speak  of  war ; 

As  if  the  modern  order  was  all  wrong 

And  must  be  torn  asunder,  cast  aside 

And  thrown  upon  the  feudal  rubbish-heap, 

With  rusty  armor,  tarnished  crowns  and  all 

The  muniments  of  ancient  privilege. 

It  is  not  thus  God  works  within  the  world 

To  move  it  on  to  better  things.     He  moves 

Not  in  the  storm,  but  still  and  unperceived, 

In  slowest  growth  of  atoms,  one  by  one 

Laid  down.    The  ocean's  vast  and  oozy  bed 

Was  raised  and  made  a  continent  by  slow 

Degrees,  and  so  the  mass  of  selfish  men 

Is  raised  through  centuries.     Here,  too,  we  see 

He  works  upon  the  units,  not  the  mass, 

Each  must  aspire  and  strive  alone,  and  they, 

The  rich  or  poor  or  drones  or  criminals, 

Who  live  the  selfish  life,  are  mere  dead  weight, 

That  cannot  be  cast  off  by  violence. 

Your  strikes  and  wars  are  mere  phenomena  ; 

True  progress  lies  below  in  single  hearts. 

The  social  structure  has  a  vital  soul 

Which  lives  in  memories  and  precedents, 

And  grows  with  every  generation's  growth. 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Deform  the  structure  and  the  soul  is  dwarfed  ; 

As  yet,  I  grant,  'tis  inarticulate, 

Much  like  a  child's  soul  in  a  mortal  frame — 

For  first  the  structure  grows  and  then  the  soul — 

The  soul  of  man  is  in  its  infancy, 

But  full  of  promise,  if  of  portent,  too. 

You  cannot  have  a  newer,  better  world 

Except  through  newer,  better  men.    Men  make 

Society  by  slow  degrees,  by  points 

Won  here  and  there  in  human  souls — a  slow 

And  toilsome  task — such  is  the  organic  law — 

At  least,  'tis  thus  I  read  it  as  I  can." 

Mr.  Brady 

"  I  find  no  hope  in  your  philosophy, 

Nor  can  man  be  content  by  thinking  on 

The  future  of  the  race.     His  present  lot 

Is  all  he  feels.    We  know  that  ours  bears  hard, 

And  you  must  own  that  your  millenium 

Is  too  far  off  to  be  a  goal  for  us. 

Men  aim  at  what  they  see,  and  feel  and  know." 

The  Interlocutor 

"  Then  do  not  look  so  far.    Two  things  there  are 
Of  highest  worth,  on  which  our  system  rests: 
The  Christian  Church,  the  Colleges  and  Schools. 
The  one  is  based  on  helpfulness  and  love , 
Broad  comradeship  of  men,  the  other  holds 
An  open  door  for  all.    Our  colleges 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Are  for  the  sons  of  working  men  ;  if  one's 
Athirst  to  learn,  there  can  he  freely  choose. 
Again,  if  any  group  of  men  are  wronged 
They  have  a  two-edged  weapon  for  defense  ; 
For  centuries  have  men  been  striving  for 
The  equal  ballot — shield  and  sword  alike 
For  human  right.    You  have  it ;  use  it  now  " 

Mr.  Brady 

"  The  Church  is  not  of  us  nor  we  of  it. 

It  rests  on  ancient  usage  ;  we  on  right. 

It  has  developed  far  beyond  the  thought 

Of  him,  the  friend  of  men  whom  we  revere, 

The  Carpenter,  the  first  true  socialist. 

Its  litanies  call  for  deliverance 

From  wrongs  of  days  long  past ;  its  charity 

Is  fixed  by  membership,  it  is  no  home 

For  us.    As  for  your  boasted  Colleges  : 

A  boy  stays  there  four  years  ;  when  he  comes  out 

He  leaves  his  class,  and  ten  to  one,  he  proves 

Its  bitterest  enemy,  and  takes  what  skill 

His  training  gives  to  work  for  capital. 

The  Turks,  I've  heard,  took  Christian  boys  from  home 

And  kin,  and  trained  them  up  to  fight  for  them  ; 

They  called  them  '  Mamelukes,'  I  think.    These  boys, 

The  working  boys  who  go  to  Colleges, 

They  are  the  modern  hireling  Mamelukes, 

Freed  from  all  homely  ties  and  sympathies, 

Most  bitter  foes  to  all  the  working  class  ; 

16 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

For  in  their  souls  burns  deep  the  traitor's  hate. 

In  talks  about  the  working-bench,  we  learn 

And  teach  more  than  is  taught  in  lecture  rooms ; 

The  Union  is  our  school  and  graduate  course  ; 

Far  sooner  would  I  see  a  son  of  mine 

Lie  dead,  his  worn  tools  in  his  calloused  hands, 

Than  in  the  office,  casting  up  accounts. 

You  spoke  of  Politics  as  if  through  that 

All  changes  could  be  made  by  party  vote ; 

But  that  requires  a  skill  we  do  not  own  ; 

We've  talked  of  it.    The  lawyers  always  win. 

To  run  a  party  is  no  work  for  us  ; 

A  hundred  forms  of  prejudice  arise, 

And  interest  takes  a  thousand  more.    How  then, 

Can  we  manipulate  such  elements  ? 

My  notion  is,  keep  clear  of  politics, 

Or  we  will  surely  wreck  our  cause." 

The  Interlocutor 

"There  you  confuse  the  strife  for  salaries, 
With  politics.     All  worthy  human  work 
Is  marred  by  selfish  men  who  thrust  themselves 
For  hire,  upon  the  people — beasts  of  prey — 
Incarnate  appetites — -each  party  flag 
Attracts  its  flock  of  vultures,  whose  obscene 
And  raucous  voices  all  assert  '  the  spoils 
Belong  to  victors,'  and  their  noisome  breath 
Infects  the  air,  but  shall  we  then  declare 
The  business  of  the  nation  base  as  they! 
Now,  tell  me  something  definite,  just  what 
You  fear,  and  what  you  hope  to  bring  about." 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Mr.  Brady 

"  The  future  must  declare  ;  we  feel  our  way, 

No  man  can  tell  what  laws  we  need,  events 

Take  on  strange  shapes  no  man  foresees.     Could  you 

Go  with  me  to  our  council-board  to-night — 

For  we,  too,  have  our  yearly  Congress  here — 

You'd  meet  some  men  of  theories  and  schemes, 

That  may  not  be.     1  might  say  that  I  think 

Our  system  gives  one  man  a  greater  strength 

Than  one  can  safely  hold.     All  history 

Declares  that  privilege  destroys  itself ; 

What  matter  it  if  power  rests  on  law  ! 

It  did  in  France  one  hundred  years  ago, 

No  less  firm-buttressed  than  our  bosses  are. 

Give  one  man  power  over  fellow-men, 

Not  earned  by  brain  or  arm  in  their  defense, 

You  build  a  rotten  dam,  and  every  deed 

Of  selfishness  adds  to  that  silent  pond 

Where  wrongs  accumulate,  until  the  dam 

Gives  way,  and  then  the  mighty  flood  of  hate 

Whelms  all  in  ruin  dire  ;  the  innocent 

And  the  oppressor,  both  are  swept  away 

In  lawless  rush  of  elemental  force. 

Since  we  sat  here,  two  men  passed  by  ;  one  old, 

One  young.    The  old  one  is  a  gentleman 

Beloved  by  all.    Two  thousand  working  men 

Are  in  one  shop  of  his ;  one  word  from  him 

Would  bring  distress  and  blight — nay,  more — despair 

And  ruin,  on  eight  hundred  homes.     He  is 

A  man.     He  knows  his  hands,  how  weak  they  are, 

18 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

He  can  be  trusted  with  the  power  of  life 
And  death.     The  other  was  his  son,  a  cur 
In  heart  and  soul ;   I  tremble  when  I  think 
That  soon  he'll  hold  that  power ;  and  I  can  name 
A  hundred  cases  where  one  man  has  more 
Of  real  authority  than  any  lord 
Who  ships  his  tenants  over  sea  and  makes 
A  sheep-walk  of  their  homes.     In  twenty  years 
It  will  be  worse.    The  world  has  never  seen 
Such  concentrated  strength  in  single  men 
Without  some  foul  abuse  and  fell  revenge. 
You  say  they  are  restrained  by  law.    Not  so ; 
The  law  compels  the  poor,  protects  the  rich. 
No  poor  man  is  so  mad  as  to  invoke  the  law ; 
P"or  if  he  did,  it  would  not  answer  him. 
You  have  the  reasons  why  I  see  no  hope 
Except  in  force." 

He  rose  and  took  his  leave, 
But  with  a  certain  rugged  dignity; 
And  as  I  watched  his  lean  and  wasted  form 
With  rounded  shoulders  and  with  crooked  hands, 
Melt  in  the  crowd  of  saunterers,  it  seemed 
As  if  an  elemental  force  had  gone, 
Unknown,  unheeded,  with  the  careless  throng. 
For  with  him  seemed  to  march  the  Tiers  Etat, 
"  The  fierce  democratie," — the  desperate  souls 
Who  hurled  themselves  against  the  barriers 
In  frantic  wrath — the  proletariat — 
The  potent  spirits  of  the  sons  of  toil — 

'9 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

Prints  of  whose  bloody  hands  are  left  upon 

The  side-posts  of  the  gate  where  liberty 

First  won  her  entrance  to  the  world  in  France  : 

The  brilliant  pageant  seemed  to  be  a  dream  ; 

The  great  hotel,  some  cloud-built  edifice, 

And  old  John  Brady,  literal  and  strong. 

And  often  have  I  thought,  "  what  can  I  do 

For  him  ?  "     He  stands  for  fifty  thousand  men  ; 

Can  I  clear  up  his  moody  discontent, 

Or  do  the  least  to  reconcile  the  lot 

Of  men  with  what  we  blindly  feel  should  be, 

And  bring  our  country  nearer  its  ideal, 

Until  the  birthright  of  each  citizen 

Shall  blossom  in  a  goodly  heritage, 

And  in  her  robes  of  state,  America, 

Among  the  other  nations  of  the  world, 

Stands  like  Diana  'mid  her  sister  nymphs, 

More  queenly  fair  and  tall  than  all  the  rest  ? 

God  knows  if  any  one  would  show  the  way, 

That  I,  and  thousands  more,  would  help  the  work. 

We  all  love  justice  with  a  desperate  love  ; 

We  love  our  country  more  than  other  men 

Love  theirs — far  more.    What  can  we  do  for  it  ? 

For  when  we  meet  with  Brady,  all  our  talk 

Seems  futile  ;  we  can  never  touch  the  man 

With  theories,  for  he  has  wrought  his  crude 

And  partial  thought  into  so  tight  a  knot, 

And  then,  he  may  be  right,  not  in  all  points, 

But  in  the  main.     He  lives  with  facts,  his  life, 

Close  to  the  ground,  gives  him  a  grip  on  facts, 


What  can  I  do  for  Brady  ? 

An  instinct  for  the  concrete  truth.     He's  like 

A  native  who  might  talk  with  one  who  reads 

In  books  the  folk-lore  of  a  foreign  land 

And  builds  an  academic  theory, 

An  empty  phase  of  thought,  an  unknown  tongue 

To  one  who  heard  the  tales  from  mother's  lips. 

None  understand  the  force  of  Adam's  curse 

But  those  beneath  the  ban.    Cruel,  that  they 

Who  have  sneaked  back  to  Paradise  should  sneer 

With  pitiless  disdain  at  those  left  out. 

One  thing  at  least !    I'll  treat  him  like  a  man, 

And  not  disdain  his  human  brotherhood. 

He  does  as  much  for  me.     He  plays  his  part 

And  pays  his  way,  and  asks  no  odds  of  fate. 

Next  week  I  read  his  name  below  a  list 

Of  "  new  arrivals  "  at  the  great  hotel : 

"  Died  :  Brady,  John,  last  night.    The  funeral 

Will  be  conducted  by  the  '  Section  M.'  " 


HEREDITY 

JUST  as   the   clock  struck  four  from   the   Congregational 
steeple — 

Struck  in  a  lumpy  way,  as  if  deciding  the  question — 
Harding  looked  out  from  the  door  of  the  bank  on  the  street  for 

a  moment, 

Looked  on  the  quiet  street  where  not  a  loose  leaf  was  stirring 
Up  in  the  crowns  of  the  elms  the  settlers  had  carefully  planted. 
Everything  seemed  asleep  except  some  boys  on  the  sidewalk, 
Playing  briskly  at  marbles  with  treble  vociferations, 
And  a  bird  overhead,  an  oriole  cheerfully  whistling, 
Peering  about  for  a  suitable  crotch  for  his  "  p recreant  cradle." 

Harding  re-entered  the  bank  and  locked  the  door  behind  him  : 
He  was  cashier,  bookkeeper,  and  teller  and  trusted  factotum 
In  the  old  bank  of  a  quiet  town  of  rural  New  England  ; 
Hard  and  cool  and  silent,  reticent,  unsympathetic, 
Accurate,  swift  and  acute,  a  type  of  the  capable  Yankee 
Straight  from  Puritan  fathers  and  primitive  Puritan  virtues. 
First  he  counted  his  cash  with  rapid  and  graceful  precision, 
Keeping  one  bill  in  the  air  as  the  last  one  fell  on  the  counter ; 
Then  he  footed  his  file  of  checks  and  slips  of  deposit, 
Nodding  his  head  when  the  total  came  out  right  to  a  penny. 
Frowning  and  closing  his  lips,  he  lifted  a  currency  bundle, 
Ran  some  bills  over  quickly,  and  pausing  the  tenth  of  a  second. 
Started  slightly  at  hearing  a  voice  ring  out  in  the  silence  ; 


Heredity 

Raucous  and  throaty  and  deep,  with  a  novel  accentuation. 
Right  by  the  grating  there  stood  a  man  of  martial  appearance, 
Eyeing  the  money  with  interest  as  he  said  with  decision  : 
"  Pouch  'em'  my  lad,  pouch  the  dirty  pieces  of  paper, 
They  are  thine  by  right,  for  the  paltry  pittance  they  pay  thee 
Isn't  one-half  thy  worth  to  the  purblind  board  of  directors. 
More  than  three  years  you  have  managed  this  bank  for  beg 
garly  wages. 
Help  yourself  like  a  man,  or  be  forever  downtrodden." 

"All  that  you  urge  no  doubt  is  quite  true,"  Harding  responded, 
"  But  if  you  speak  so  loudly  some  passer  may  happen  to  hear 
you." 

"  No  one  can  hear  me  but  thee,  my  lad,  and  that  psalm-singing 
Roundhead — 

Would  I  had  slit  his  weasand  or  ever  he  married  my  daughter, 

Making  me  grandsire  of  Puritans,  me,  who  fought  with  Prince 
Rupert ; 

But  the  old  blood  will  tell  in  the  end  though  basely  commingled. 

Thou  hast  some  in  thy  veins,  and  it  makes  thee  chafe  at  thy 
bondage  ; 

All  us  De  Courceys  were  soldiers  of  fortune  back  to  the  Con 
quest, 

No  cadet  of  our  house  ever  served  a  master  not  noble. 

Pause  not,  my  lad,  pause  not,  for  they  treat  thee  with  sordid 
injustice, 

Take  what  you  like,  put  it  back  when  you  like,  and  no  one  the 
wiser." 

23 


Heredity 

Harding's  fingers  closed  on  the  bills  with  determination, 
Then  he  relaxed  his  grasp,  for  another  stood  by  the  first  one  ; 
Thin  and  uncomely  his  face,  and  his  figure  stiff  and  unyielding, 
Only  his  eye  was  deep  with  the  light  of  a  noble  ideal. 
Thus  he  spoke,  and  his  high-pitched  voice   had   a  resonant 

sweetness ; 

Echoes  of  strenuous  thought  and  narrow  devotion  to  duty 
Seemed  to  tell  of   the  cross-grained  virtues  of  ancient   New 

England. 

"  Think,  my  son  :    for  the  act  in  your  mind  is  prompted  by 

Satan ; 
It  is  theft — no   more   nor  less — far  worse   than  theft  on  the 

highway. 
Robbers  show  courage  at  least,  though  they  wear  a  mask  on 

their  faces ; 

He  who  takes  from  a  trust  and  adds  to  robbery,  treason, 
He  puts  a  mask  on  his  soul  and  robs  in  a  cowardly  fashion. 
I  was  the   pastor  who   led  the  flock    through   the  wilderness 

hither : 
Great  were  our  dangers,  my  son,  when  first  we  came  to  this 

refuge, 
Dangers  .from  savage  beasts,  and  dangers  from  men  of  the 

forest. 
Thine,  in  the  headlong  scramble  for   money,  are  greater  than 

ours  were. 

Cunningly  laid  are  the  traps  of  the  devil  and  cunningly  baited, 
Far  more  subtle  is  he  than  the  Indian  savage  in  ambush ; 
Strong  is  the  tempter,  my  son,  and  strong  the  daily  temptation. 


Heredity 

Therefore  I  yearn  over  thee,  my  son,  more  in  pity  than  sorrow. 
Think  of  the  name  thou  bearest,  unsullied  for  five  generations : 
John  Harding — the  name  handed  down  as  a  trust  from  your 

father, 
Borne  by  your  father  and  grandsire  and  me,  without  taint  of 

dishonor! 

Heed  not  the  words  of  this  man  of  sin,  this  dissolute  courtier. 
Nevertheless  his  rights  in  thy  soul  are  as  strong  as  mine  own 

are, 

Since  his  daughter  came  across  the  perilous  ocean, 
Came  with  me,  her  husband,  in  loving  and  faithful  devotion. 
Thus  I  plucked  a  brand  from  the  burning  to  feed  the  flame  on 

the  altar. 
Thus  came  the  taint  in  the  blood  to  plague  the  fifth  generation." 

Fiercely,  the  other  broke  in  on  his  words  with  a  loud  impre 
cation  : 

"  Taint,  thou  Puritan  dog !  Taint !  It  is  thou  that  hast  tainted, 
Tainted  the  blood  of  my  race  with  the  muddy  stream  of  the 

Hardings. 
Leave  us,  hypocrite  Roundhead,   leave  me  to  talk  with  the 

youngster, 

Or  I  will  deal  roundly  with  thee  though  much  it  mislikes  me 
Even  to  touch  thy  miserable  carcass.    Would  that  I  had  thee 
Back  in  old  England,  back  in  the  days  of  Merry  King  Charley. 
Soon  the  hangman  would  shorten   thine  ears  'till  the  noose 

would  slip  over, 

Cool  his  brand-iron  on  thy  back  and  scourge  thee  out  of  the 
city. 

25 


Heredity 

Psalm-singing  knave  and  low-born  cur  of  the  pestilent  Round 
heads, 
Hold  thy  peace  when  a  gentleman  talks  to  another  in  private." 

"  Nay,  my  son,"  said  the  preacher,  "  heed  not  the  ragings  of 

Satan, 
Heed  not  this  vaporing  man  of  wrath  whom  the  godly  Oliver 

Cromwell, 

Loth  to  shed  recreant  blood,  mistakenly  spared  from  the  gallows, 
Cromwell,  loth  to  shed  blood  except  in  open  encounter. 
No  one  could  hurt  this  man,  he  fled  so  nimbly  in  battle." 

"  Liar  and  hound,"  yelled  the  other,  hurling  himself  on  the 
preacher, 

Meaning  to  catch  his  enemy's  neck  in  the  vice-like  grip  of  the 
elbow, 

But  the  old  Puritan  flung  out  his  arms  and  ducked  neatly  under, 

Spreading  his  legs  and  arching  his  back  and  bracing  his  shoul 
ders, 

So  that  he  grasped  the  Cavalier's  waist  at  a  slight  disadvantage. 

Straining  and  swaying  to  and  fro  with  a  tremulous  motion, 

Neither  seemed,  for  an  instant,  able  to  bear  down  the  other. 

Stirred  to  the  roots  of  his  being,  Harding  regarded  the  struggle. 

Breathing  deep  and  hard  in  sympathetic  excitement ; 

Out  of  his  heart  came  the  wish,  "  I   hope  the  preacher  will 

throw  him." 

Then,  the  dominie,  seeming  to  gain  in  strength  and  in  stature, 
Twisted  the  other  off   from  his  feet  with  a  mighty  endeavor, 
Raised  him  clear  of  the  floor  and  flung  him  over  his  shoulder, 

26 


Heredity 

Whirled  him  round  twice  and  threw  him  over  the  top  of  the 

fan-light. 

Flatwise  he  struck  on  the  wall  with  the  angry  howl  of  a  demon, 
Slap  through  the  wall  he  went,  leaving  only  a  luminous  flicker 
Marking  with  lambent  flame  on  the  place  the  shape  of  his 

figure  ; 
Bluish    smoke    curled  up  on  the  wall    and   was   gone   in  an 

instant, 

While  the  Cavalier's  oaths  and  his  seventeenth-century  curses 
Tore  through  the  air  outside  and  died  away  in  the  distance. 

Hastily,  Harding  put  all  his  cash  in  the  proper  compartments, 
Pushed  the  box  in  the  safe,  closed  the  door  and  setting  the 

time  lock, 
Threw  up  the  curtain  and  looked  on  the  silent  and  luminous 

May  day. 

Still  on  the  sidewalk  the  boys  were  noisily  playing  at  marbles, 
Through  the  main  street  a  leisurely  farmer  was  driving  his  oxen, 
Over  their  heads  in  the  elms  the  cheerful  oriole  whistled ; 
None  of  them  seemed  aware  that  a  mortal  conflict  was  over, 
Fought  by  ghosts  in  that  little  room,  with  Harding  for  umpire. 
When  he  turned  back,  there  stood  the  grim,  old  Puritan  preacher, 
Upright  and  quaint  and  sincere,  his  face  lit  up  by  his  triumph. 
"  Twas  a  shrewd  tussle,"  he  said,  "and  much  I  feared  for  the 

issue. 

We  are  beside  thee,  my  son,  in  thy  daily  comings  and  goings, 
Never  before  have  we  met  in  such  a  dreadful  encounter. 
Only  thy  will,  my  son,  gave  me  the  strength  to  o'erthrow  him ; 
Though  we  prompt  thy  thought,  yet  thy  will  ruleth  our  prompt 
ings." 

27 


Heredity 

While  he  spoke,  his  resonant  voice  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
Till  the  last  words  were  carried  into  the  listener's  conscience 
Free  from  audible  sound  in  the  air,  while  his  face  and  his  figure 
Faded  away,  as  if  veil  after  veil  had  risen  between  them ; 
Then  he  was  gone !  and  naught  but  the  whirling  motes  in  the 

sunbeams 
Met  the  gaze  of  the   man  as  he   drew  in  his  breath  with  a 

shudder. 

Harding  opened  the  door,  his  face  still  set  with  emotion. 

On  the  sidewalk  the  boys  were  disputing  and  playing  at  marbles, 

Far  down  the  street  could  be  heard  the  creak  of  the  lumbering 

ox-cart, 

In  the  elms  overhead  the  oriole  cheerfully  whistled, 
Out  of  a  pear-tree  from  over  the  way  with  rapturous  shrillness 
Came  the  song-sparrow's  lyric,  the  sweetest  sound  of   New 

England. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Harding,"  said  one  of  the  boys,  looking  up  from  his 

marbles, 

•'  Isn't  our  bank  the  biggest  and  safest  bank  in  the  country?  " 
"There  are  larger  ones,  Johnny,"  said  Harding,  "  but  none,  I 

think,  safer." 

Sudden,  he  stopped  and  looked  back,  for  in  his  own  intonations 
Plainly  he  heard  the  tones  of  the  "  port-wine  voice  "  of   De 

Courcey, 

Arrogant,  brutal  and  deep,  yet  soft  as  the  purr  of  a  tiger. 
Then  he  drew  himself  up  as  he  saw  his  figure  reflected 
Dim  in  the  glass  of  the  window,  close  by  the  side  of  the  column, 

38 


Heredity 

For  the  poise  of  the  head,  the  bearing  and  turn  of  the  shoulders, 
Looked  like  the  Puritan's  shadow,  with  strong  and  vital  sug 
gestions 

Of  faith  and  strenuous  trust  in  himself,  his   God  and  his  con 
science. 

Dim  from  the  depth  of  the  glass  the  silent  image  looked  on  him, 
Honest  and  calm  and  true,  the  type  of  ancestral  New  England. 


•9 


ST.  IGNATIUS 

THE  semi-translucent  color,  crude  and  unsympathetic, 
Filtered  out  of  the  noonday  sun  that  beat  on  the  windows 
All  of  the  searching,  revealing  rays  of  the  critical  daylight, 
Toning  with  soft,  effeminate  warmth  the  chancel  and  organ, 
Making  the  white-robed,  snub-nosed  choristers'  faces  appear  less 
Plainly  Milesian,  and  less  like  wild  things  pent  in  their  places. 
The  drone  of  the  priest,  his  pose,  and  labored  intonations 
Harmonized  well  with  the  scene  and  gave  it  an  air  of  effeteness, 
As  of  something  old,  from  which  the  life  had  departed, 
Something  which  ran  of  itself  from  long-fixed  habit  and  usage. 
Just  as  a  very  old  man  repeats  the  tales  of  his  boyhood, 
Calling  up  names  of  men  and  things  long  dead  and  forgotten, 
Real  and  living  for  him  in  moonlit  memory's  vision, 
Vacant  of  meaning  to  us  in  the  clear,  cold  air  of  the  present, 
So  that  lady-like  priest  declaimed  a  decorous  sermon, 
Void  of  all  relation  to  questions  of  every-day  living, 
Chasing    his   thought   in  a   circle,  confounding   the    end  and 

beginning, 

Reading  bewildering  meanings  into  historical  records, 
Setting  aside  what  men  have  learned  by  patient  endeavor, 
Hewing  and  carving  the  fact  to  square  with  certain  assumptions, 
Harping  on  crude  and  infantile  guesses  at  central  existence. 

From  a  cushioned  pew  I  noted  with  some  irritation 

This  man  cantering  smoothly  in  regions  of  absolute  fancy, 

And  yet  appealing  to  me  as  if  it  were  argumentation. 


St.  Ignatius 

"  How  does  it  happen,"   I  mused,  "  that  his  thought  always 

misses  connection  ? 
No  one  could  call  him  precisely  insane   in  the  judgment  of 

lawyers, 
Though    in    his  brain    the   currents    are   crossed    in    hopeless 

confusion. 

If  all  reasoned  like  him,  we  should  have  the  kingdom  of  chaos: 
Civilization  would  ebb,  the  great  moral  lights  be  extinguished  ; 
Over  the  world  would  creep  an  unintelligent  darkness, 
Under  which  men  would  be  portioned  anew  twixt  the  priest  and 

the  soldier. 
What  thinks  the  great  world-spirit  of  this  strange,  composite 

worship, 
This  modern  compound  of  Roman,  and  Greek,  and  Hebrew 

tradition, 

Mixed  with  a  trace  of  the  Persian  cult  of  saluting  the  morning, 
Lacking  the  central  strength  of  a  unified  racial  conception  ? 
What  thinks  that  great  conscience  which  sees  the  past  and  the 

present, 

Sees  the  rites  in  Solomon's  temple  and  with  the  same  vision 
Sees  the  stately  march  of  the  ancient  Egyptian  procession, 
And  in  the  cavern  beneath  the  city  the  primitive  Christians 
Singing  the  hymn  and  breaking  the  bread  in  communal  worship, 
What  thinks  that  great  spirit  of  this  man  and  this  congrega 
tion?  " 

Full  "of  these  thoughts   that  passed  and  repassed  in   endless 

succession 
Raising  my  eyes  I  saw  on  the  left  a  crude  mural  painting, 

3' 


St.  Ignatius 

Showing  the  Christ  in  healing  the  sick  and  blessing  the  people. 
Suddenly  over  me  came  a  sense  of  that  infinite  patience 
Based  on  love  divine  and  human  brotherly  kindness  ; 
How  he  spoke  to  the  good  in  man  from  his  infinite  goodness, 
How  he  spoke  to  the  poor  and  weak  with  boundless  compassion. 
Suddenly,  too,  I  felt  that  pride  is  blind  and  inhuman : 
Pride  of  riches  we  call  unintelligent  child's  pride  ; 
Intellectual  pride  is  yet  more  cold  and  unchristian. 

Slight  is  our  knowledge  at  best,  mere  wading  in  shallows 
Close  to  the  shore  and  guessing  about  the  depths  of  the  ocean 
Stretching  miles  and  miles  and  covering  vast  abysses. 
What  can  we  reptiles  know  of  the  scheme  of  the  world-evolu 
tion, 

Seeing  a  moment  with  purblind  eyes  a  fragment  of  action, 
Glancing  with  scorn  at  the  front  of  the  stage  behind  which  are 

moving 

In  shadow  the  forces  which  carry  the  sub-plot  of  human  en 
deavor 

While  the  main  plot  is  slowly  developed  in  numberless  aeons  ? 
Great  is  the  plan,  without   measure  the  years  of  its  endless 

enfolding. 

Knowledge,  we  painfully  gather,  beauty  we  seek  to  embody 
Though   but   a  hint   is   vouchsafed    us,  blent  with   mundane 

confusion ; 

Both  we  know  are  divine,  but  both  on  earth  are  imperfect; 
Love  alone  is  revealed,  unbounded  in  god-like  perfection. 
Surely  the  man  who  sneers  from  a  sense  of  superior  knowledge  ( 
Writes  himself  down  as  lower  than  him  whom  he  sneers  at. 


- 


PART   II. 
MISCELLANEOUS  VERSE 


33 


AFTER  THE  CRIME 

IN  REASONING  anger  in  my  soul  held  sway 
LJ    Throughout  the  night,  but  with  the  break  of  day 
Into  my  home  there  came  an  accusing  ghost. 
I  challenged  faint  as  one  whose  hope  is  lost, 
My  shuddering  heart-blood  chilling  at  its  source, 
"  What  art  thou  called  ?  "     It  said,  "/  am  Remorse." 

Next  day  a  second  came  with  pensive  air, 
The  serious  look  which  happy  children  wear 
When  the  first  sense  of  life's  sad  sympathies 
Looks  through  the  tears  in  thoughtful  eyes. 
Wondering,  I  asked  while  the  pathetic  gaze  I  met, 
"And  who  art  thou  ?  "     It  said,  "/  am  Regret." 

But  as  it  spoke  the  outline  grew  less  plain, 
Then  vanished,  and  my  heart  was  light  again, 
Another  ghost  had  bid  the  last  depart, 
I  challenged  boldly,  "  Tell  me  who  thou  art, 
That  makest  Regret  to  yield  her  mild  duress." 
This  answered,  "I  am  called  Forgetfulness." 


15 


THE  FOSSIL  FERN 

DEEP  in  the  coal  mine's  damp  and  dark  recess 
Beneath  a  thousand  feet  of  rocky  roof, 
I  found  a  fossil  fern,  its  loveliness 

As  delicate  as  when  its  fairy  woof 
Of  rib  and  vein  grew  in  the  wind-swept  air 

Beneath  a  sun  more  bright  and  glorious 
Than  ours,  upon  a  youthful  world  more  fair 

Than  this  old  wrinkled  world  which  shelters  us. 
The  fern  is  dead,  how  many  years  ago  ! 

Its  soul  survives  the  voyage  perilous 
Through  centuries  and  countless  centuries, 

For  it  was  beautiful.    The  cruel,  slow, 
Relentless  years  could  not  consume 

The  eternal  form  which  still  delights  our  eyes 
And  only  grew  more  perfect  in  the  tomb. 


LONDON 


WHY  is  it  that  men  always  rate 
The  smoky  London  truly  great, 
Greater  than  Paris  or  than  Rome, 
Though  art  in  these  has  made  her  home, 
And  England's  Capital  has  been 
Dear  to  the  modern  Philistine  ? 
Not  for  her  streets  where  millions  crawl 
And  toil  and  die  ;  no,  not  for  all 
Her  miles  of  ships  and  busy  marts 
And  "  triumphs  of  industrial  arts," 
And  old  historic  palaces 
Haunted  by  feudal  memories  ; 
Not  for  all  these,  but  here  were  born 
Six  poets :  first,  he  who  in  the  morn 
Of  letters  wrote  the  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury,  which  still  the  age 
Delights  to  read,  and  will  as  long 
As  men  love  men  ;  then,  he  whose  song 
Unto  his  bride  is  still  as  sweet 
As  when  he  laid  it  at  her  feet ; 
Next,  the  old  man,  whose  sightless  eyes 
Saw  the  fair  Eve  in  Paradise 
While  musing  o'er  the  eternal  plan 
To  justify  God's  ways  to  man  ; 
Then,  Keats,  upon  whose  laurelled  hearse 


London 

Young  Shelley  laid  his  deathless  verse, 
The  noblest  tribute  ever  paid 
By  mortal  man  to  an  immortal  shade  ; 
And  Browning,  in  whose  cryptic  line 
The  thought  lies  hid,  as  in  a  mine 
The  precious  ore,  that  they  must  blast 
And  toil  and  sweat  to  come  at  last 
Upon  a  vein  of  paying  quartz 
'Neath  fifty  feet  of  barren  orts  ; 
And  he,  the  painter  to  whose  name 
Two  arts  have  yielded  equal  fame, 
In  color  and  in  words  intense 
Beyond  the  scope  of  mortal  sense, 
Rossetti,  artist  through  and  through, 
Who  linked  the  old  world  and  the  new. 
These  sons  are  London's  pride,  and  thus 
Her  name  is  made  so  glorious 
That  neither  Rome  nor  Paris  dare 
Their  diadems  with  hers  compare. 


THE  MODERN  DRAMA 


YOU  say,  the  modern  playwright  merely  seeks 
To  raise  a  laugh  on  foolishest  pretense, 
That  actors  have  no  higher  aim,  and  that  the  Greeks 
Would  look  with  scorn  on  play  and  audience. 

You  say,  the  art  of  acting,  too,  is  gone, 

For  minor  parts  essential  to  the  whole, 

Since  the  one  "  star  "  desires  to  shine  alone, 

Are  murdered  nightly  by  some  thick-tongued  fool. 

It  may  be  so,  but  yet  it  is  our  stage, 

Though  naught  but  pictures  speaking  to  the  eye ; 
We  make  our  drama,  as  we  make  our  age, 

A  pageant  destitute  of  poetry. 


39 


TO  W.  H. 

WHAT  was  the  name  behind  those  capitals  ? 
Speak,  shade  of  "  W.  H."    Did  Thomas  Thorpe, 
That  sly  and  subtle  printer,  make  thee  up 
To  puzzle  future  ages  ?    Answer  me. 
If  you  "  begot  "  the  sonnets  Shakespeare  wrote, 
Did  you  "  inspire  "  or  merely  "  gather  "  them  ? 
And  while  you  are  about  it,  tell  me  please, 
Who  was  the  "  other  poet,"  and  who,  O  who, 
The  lady  was?     I  "  pause  for  a  reply." 

And  while  I  pause,  I  hear  a  mocking  laugh, 
A  dry  and  crackling  chuckle,  "  he  -  he  -  he  "- 
It  is  the  tinkling  sneer  of  Thomas  Thorpe 
From  out  the  malebolge  where  jesters  dwell 
Who  set  conundrums  which  the  world  can't  guess, 
Then  die  and  leave  no  key.    Laugh  on,  "  T.  T." 
Some  day  I'll  visit  thee,  and  grip  thy  throat, 
And  squeeze  thy  withered  weasand  ;  then  ease  up 
Until  you  gasp  the  truth  about  those  manuscripts. 


THE  HOURS 


BEHIND  each  hour  there  always  lies  another 
More  like  the  first  than  brother  unto  brother, 
And  thought  can  never  find  the  first  one  nor  the  last 
In  endless  future  nor  in  endless  past. 

No  ending  to  the  line  and  no  beginning! 
Simply  the  clock  of  time  forever  ringing, 
A  solemn  fog-bell  tolling  everlastingly 
Above  the  wan  waves  of  a  level  sea ! 

What  does  it  mean,  this  ceaseless,  sad  procession 
Of  hours?     No  halt,  no  change,  no  retrogression, 
No  haste,  no  swerving,  no  delaying,  no  retreat, 
Each  like  the  last  as  pendulum  beat  to  beat ! 

The  earth  and  moon  grow  ever  old  and  older, 
And  human  hearts  grow  warmer  or  grow  colder, 
While  stealthy  death  creeps  up  all  ties  to  sever, 
The  hours  move  in  unbroken  file  forever. 

For  they  alone  are  free  from  all  mutation, 
Exempt  alike  from  death  and  from  creation ; 
They  pass,  and  pass,  and  pass,  and  passing  testify 
To  infinite  and  immanent  eternity. 


THE   FISHERMAN'S  DAUGHTER 

AN  OLD  BALLAD  RE-SET 

A  MAIDEN  lived  by  the  river-side 
Where  the  river  meets  the  ocean's  tide, 
"Oh,  ferry  me  over  the  ferry." 

She  took  my  youthful  heart  in  fee, 

For  she  was  fair  as  fair  could  be, 

As  she  rowed  me  across  in  her  wherry. 

Her  hair  was  as  bright  as  the  waves  of  a  rill 
When  the  sun  on  the  eve  of  his  setting  stands  still, 
Her  lips  were  as  red  as  a  cherry. 

A  sea-king's  daughter  she  might  have  been, 
Or  a  maid  of  honor  to  ocean's  queen, 
To  me  she  was  tender  and  merry, 

But  the  world's  strong  current  casts  aside 
Young  love,  like  drift  torn  up  by  the  tide, 
And  time  all  passions  can  bury. 


Though  years  have  come  and  have  gone  again, 
In  my  heart  still  echoes  the  old  refrain  : 
"Oh,  ferry  me  over  the  ferry." 


THE  FIRE-FLIES  AND  THE  STARS 


The  young  Fire-Fly  speaks  : 


'  ^  '"PHE  clover  blooms  so  sweet  with  dew, 

1     Lie  far  beneath  the  field  of  blue, 
But  there,  as  here,  the  realm  of  night 
Is  pierced  by  points  of  glittering  light. 
Our  little  flame's  a  fitful  spark 
Closed  in  by  curtains  of  the  dark  ; 
Their  steady  ray  must  surely  be 
Exempt  from  mutability. 
How  beautiful  and  calm  they  are, 
Oh,  would  that  I  could  fly  so  far  ! 
Night  after  night  I  gaze  at  them, 
And  long  to  touch  their  garment's  hem. 
No  doubt  they're  of  a  nobler  race  ; 
If  I  could  see  them  face  to  face, 
Perhaps  they'd  even  speak  to  me, 
They  are  so  glorious  to  see — 
And  teach  me  lore  of  higher  worth 
Than  that  which  guides  us  here  on  earth. 
Their  nature  must  be  like  to  mine, 
Though  I'm  an  insect;  they,  divine." 
Thus  spake  the  ardent  young  fire-fly, 
Gazing  with  reverence  at  the  sky. 


The  Fire-Flies  and  the  Stars 

The  paternal  scientific  Fire-Fly  answers  : 

•'  I've  heard  that  rot  about  the  skies 
From  many  ardent  young  fire-flies. 
Those  stars  you  see  are  not  divine, 
In  some  mechanical  way  they  shine  ; 
Night  after  night,  they're  just  the  same, 
And  not  like  me,  a  living  flame. 
Perhaps  they're  bits  of  phosphorous 
Stuck  up  to  light  the  night  for  us, 
Perhaps  they're  strictly  subjective, 
Existing  only  while  we  live. 
No  one  can  find  out  what  they  are  ; 
They're  unexplained  phenomena. 
Stick  to  the  near ;  avoid  the  far  ; 
Don't  speculate  about  the  sky 
Or  anything  that  is  so  high  ; 
You  waste  your  time  in  dreaming  of 
Things  you  can't  taste,  or  weigh,  or  prove 
Study  yourself  and  fellow  flies, 
Things  you  can  see  and  analyze, 
Don't  stare  aloft  with  weeping  eyes. 
And  then,  perhaps,  you  may  pile  on 
The  cairn  of  facts  one  little  stone." 

Thus  spake  the  elder  wise  fire-fly — 
The  younger  still  looks  on  the  sky. 


THEN  AND  NOW 

TO  me  the  earth  once  seemed  to  be 
Most  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
All  living  creatures  were  to  me, 

In  wood  or  air, 
But  kindred  of  a  freer  class  ; 

I  thrilled  with  keenest  joy 
To  find  the  young  quail  in  the  grass ; — 
I  was  a  boy. 

The  robin  in  the  apple-tree, 

The  brown  thrush  in  the  wood, 
The  meadow  larks,  all  called  to  me  ; 

I  understood  : 
A  sense  of  union  with  the  whole, 

Of  love  for  beast  and  bird, 
Deep  chords  from  man's  ancestral  soul, 

Each  wild  note  stirred. 

All  that  is  gone,  and  now  I  see 

A  blood-stained  earth,  where  strife, 
Unceasing  war,  and  cruelty, 

Make  room  for  life  ; 
Each  living  thing  a  helpless  prey 

To  sharper  tooth  or  claw, 
Ten  thousand  murders  every  day 

By  nature's  law. 

45 


Then  and  Now 

But  still  old  earth  its  glamour  casts 

O'er  the  clear  eyes  of  youth, 
And  still  the  old  illusion  lasts 

In  spite  of  truth ; 
For  now  I  find  my  boy  can  see 

The  earth  I  used  to  know, 
He  sees  it  as  it  seemed  to  me 

So  long  ago. 

Poor  little  chap !    Sometimes  I  think 

I'll  tell  him  how  he's  fooled. 
But  when  I  see  his  eyes,  I  shrink. 

My  purpose  cooled  : 
Why  should  I  cloud  his  soul  with  doubt, 

Or  youth's  illusions  mar? 
Too  soon,  alas,  he  will  find  out 

That  life  is  war. 


NIGHT 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

THE  day  was  dying,  and  a  cloud 
Emptied  of  light  lay  listless  in  the  west, 
And  on  the  wan  face  of  the  sea  allowed 

The  drooping  folds  of  its  white  cloak  to  rest. 

The  Night  appeared,  the  sable  Night  serene, 
Clad  in  sad  mourning  for  her  brother  Day  ; 

And  every  star  to  their  enthroned  queen, 

In  golden  raiment  came,  its  court  to  pay. 

The  place  was  full  of  echoes  of  forgotten  things, 
Sounds  without  sources  rising  everywhere, 

Like  beatings  of  mysterious  wings 

From  angels  drifting  through  the  darkling  air. 

For  heaven  was  whispering  softly  with  old  earth, 
As  once  they  talked  on  Sinai  or  Horeb — 

Was  telling  o'er  the  mystery  of  their  birth — 

I  caught  the  one  word — God — 'twas  all  they  said. 


THE  ELM  TREE 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  THEOPHILE  GAUTIER 

ON  the  hill-side  down  there  where  the  graves  lie, 
A  tall  elm  tree,  a  green  and  feathery  plume, 
Lifts  up  its  head,  to  which  at  eve  the  birds  fly — 
Their  shelter  through  the  gloom. 

But  in  the  morning  they  all  leave  the  elm  tree 

And  seek  some  distant  fields,  I  know  not  where- 
East  and  West  and  North  and  South,  dispersedly, 
They  scatter  through  the  air. 

My  soul  is  like  that  tree,  for  dream-like  faces 

And  throngs  of  fancies  with  the  darkness  come, 

But  with  the  morning  fly  to  unknown  places 
Where  fancies  have  their  home. 


4 


THE  SCULPTOR 


LONG  years  the  sculptor  dreamed  and  wrought 
To  realize  in  stone  the  thought 
Of  Christ  the  Saviour,  blessed  Lord, 
The  hope  of  man,  the  incarnate  word. 
His  hand  was  skilled  ;  men  said  that  he 
Was  master  of  art's  mystery, 
And  he  was  studious,  reverent,  wise. 
Long  years  he  failed  to  realize 
In  stone  the  ideal  he  labored  o'er ; 
With  each  attempt  dissatisfied, 
He  every  morning  cast  aside 
What  he  had  done  the  day  before. 

At  last,  he  seemed,  one  happy  day, 
To  reach  his  aim  ;  the  plastic  clay 
Took  from  his  hand  the  sure  impress 
Which,  wrought  in  marble,  should  express 
The  Prophet-priest  of  David's  line 
Who  linked  the  human  and  divine. 
Then,  when  his  labor  was  complete, 
He  called  a  child  from  out  the  street, 
"  Dear  child,"  he  said,  "  now  tell  me  true, 
Who  does  this  statue  seem  to  you  ?  " 
The  child  looked  on  the  solemn  head, 
Serene  and  loving  ;  then  she  said, 


The  Sculptor 

"  Tis  some  good  angel  from  above 
That  brings  to  man  God's  words  of  love." 

The  sculptor  mused,  "  My  work  is  naught 

But  human  skill  and  human  thought; 

A  little  child's-  pure  eye  can  see 

Its  failure  from  divinity  ; 

Trusting  too  much  the  artist  mood, 

I've  lost  the  sense  of  brotherhood  ; 

I've  looked  within,  I  have  not  been 

A  fellow-man  with  fellow-men. 

Christ  loved  mankind  ;   He  did  not  shun 

The  sinner  nor  the  publican." 

The  chisel  dropped  from  his  nerveless  hand, 

He  wandered  homeless  through  the  land. 

His  heart  went  out  to  men's  distress; 

He  ate  the  bread  of  loneliness, 

He  helped  the  outcast  and  the  poor, 

He  cheered  the  convict's  dying  hour ; 

In  sorrow,  sickness,  pain  and  strife 

He  learned  the  bitterness  of  life. 

Once  more  he  felt  the  fierce  unrest. 
Thrilled  with  ideals  unexpressed. 
And  sought  again  his  workshop's  door : 
The  unused  tools  lay  on  the  floor. 
The  sunbeams  fell  on  cast  and  bust, 
The  work-bench  white  with  marble  dust, 
The  tools  he  left  with  downcast  heart 
Feeling  the  failure  of  his  art. 


He  wrought  with  fasting  and  with  prayer, 
With  trance  and  vision  on  the  air, 
He  saw  the  loving,  pitying  eyes, 
The  brow  o'ercast  with  sacrifice. 
The  Christ  of  sorrow,  the  Christ  of  pain, 
He  yearned  to  form  that  men  might  see 
The  eternal  strength  of  sympathy. 
He  wrought  in  feverish  haste,  as  one 
Who  knows  that  he  must  soon  be  gone, 
But  not  until  his  work  be  done. 

Again  his  labor  was  complete, 
He  called  the  child  from  out  the  street. 
"  Dear  child,"  he  said,  "  now  tell  me  true, 
Who  does  this  statue  seem  to  you  ?  " 
The  child  looked  up,  "  Oh,  this  is  He 
Who  said,  '  Let  children  come  to  me,' 
This  is  the  Lord  who  loved  men  so, 
And  died  for  us  long  years  ago." 

"  I  thank  Thee,  Lord,"  the  master  cried, 
"  That  this  pure  child  has  testifed, 
I've  learned  through  human  sympathy 
Some  faint  conception,  Lord,  of  Thee, 
Oh,  may  it  be  within  Thy  grace 
I  soon  may  see  Thee,  face  to  face  !  " 
The  master's  head  dropped  on  his  breast, 
His  "  long  disquiet  merged  in  rest." 
That  night  he  died  ;  around  his  bed 
The  awed  attendants,  whispering,  said, 
"  The  pale,  thin  face  is  like  the  one 
That  he  last  wrought  in  flawless  stone." 


"'TIS  FOLLY  TO  BE  WISE  " 

TO-DAY  I  saw  two  men  upon  the  street 
Who  seemed  to  prove  it  true  that  extremes  meet 
One  had  a  smug  air  of  prosperity, 
"  Pride  in  his  port,  defiance  in  his  eye." 
Well  fed,  well  dressed,  a  form  of  ample  girth, 
A  rotund  face  contented  with  the  earth  ; 
Much  grist  had  come  unto  his  busy  mill 
And  he  had  levied  toll  with  right  good  will. 
Behind  him  close  an  unkempt  creature  came, 
A  shambling  form  weighed  down  with  fear  and  shame, 
But  keeping  even  pace,  though  glancing  back 
As  one  who  hears  the  hounds  upon  his  track, 
And  knows  the  hour  has  come  when  he  must  stand 
At  bay  with  failing  heart  and  feeble  hand. 

And  while  I  wondered  if  the  tramp  could  be 

Some  claimant  on  the  other's  charity, 

A  low  voice  spoke,  "  These  two  forms  are  the  same — 

One  is  the  man  the  other  is  his  fame." 

Eager,  I  cried,  "  Teach  me  that  1  may  know 

Which  is  the  real  man,  and  which  the  show, 

So  that  hereafter  1  may  well  discern 

The  hypocrite  and  criminal,  and  learn 

To  look  behind  the  fair  appearances 

And  see  the  masked  soul  as  it  really  is." 

But  the  voice  answered  softly,  "  Nay,  not  so  ; 

For  then  no  friends  nor  comrades  could  you  know." 


LOVE'S   LIGHT 

FROM  the  enchanted  land 
Love  brings  a  torch  in  hand, 
Not  that  which  lights  the  fires, 
Which  burn  the  heart  with  fierce  desires 
To  arid  sand, 

But  the  white  flame  which  brings 
To  light  long-hidden  things  : 
Deep  slumbering  energies, 
Ancestral  traits  and  memories, 
From  distant  springs. 

He  enters  the  dark  halls 
Of  thought ;  upon  whose  walls 
Are  cut  the  ancient  runes, 
That  run  to  old,  prophetic  tunes, 
Which  he  recalls. 

For  love's  light  can  reveal 
Man's  inner  self,  unseal 
The  aspiring  fount  of  hope, 
And  give  the  darkened  spirit  scope 
To  live  and  feel. 


LOVE'S  SERVICE 


L 


OVE  called  to  a  young  man  winningly, 
"  Come  join  the  ranks  of  my  company, 
And  take  the  field  in  my  service." 


But  the  young  man  said,  "  There  are  other  things 
Than  blushes  and  kisses  and  flowers  and  rings, 
Of  far  more  worth  than  your  service. 

There's  a  fortune  to  make  and  work  to  be  done, 
The  world  to  be  conquered,  and  fame  to  be  won, 

Which  they  lose  who  enter  Love's  service. 

There's  business  and  sport  and  pleasure  and  ar: ; 
Your  warfare  is  folly,  your  weapon  a  dart ; 

I've  no  time  to  waste  in  your  service." 

Love  turned  lightly  away  when  he  heard  the  rebuff, 
For  young  volunteers  were  more  than  enough 
To  fill  up  the  roll  of  his  service. 

But  time  going  past  made  clear  to  the  man 
That  they  are  the  wisest  who  join  when  they  can 
The  worshipful  ranks  of  Love's  service. 


Love's  Service 

So  the  man  brought  to  Love  his  jewels  and  coin  ; 
Forgetting  his  years  he  thought  he  would  join 

The  throng  who  pressed  to  Love's  service. 

But  Love  answered  lightly,  "  The  day  has  gone  by; 
A  sear  autumn  leaf's  too  thin  and  too  dry 

For  a  garland  worn  in  my  service. 

You  can  buy  if  you  like  a  friendly  regard, 
And  perhaps  it  may  seem,  if  you  try  very  hard, 
As  if  you  were  in  my  service. 

But  the  raw  recruits  for  my  household  guard 
I  take  from  the  young,  the  old  are  debarred 

From  taking  the  oath  in  my  service. 

The  countersign's — Youth — "Can  you  give  it?  "  "Ah,  no, 
"  Then,  right  about  face.    You're  too  old  and  too  slow 
To  learn  the  details  of  my  service." 


is 


THE  SHAKESPEREAN   PHRASE 


HE  took  ten  words  from  our  English  speech 
Two  were  such  as  mothers  teach 
Their  children  when  they  croon  them  rhymes 
Or  teach  them  legends  of  old  times, 
One  he  learned  from  his  father's  men. 
One  he  picked  up  from  "  rare  old  Ben," 
Two  he  heard  Marlowe  use  one  day 
At  the  Mitre  Tavern  after  the  play, 
One  he  recalled  from  a  ballad  rude 
That  his  comrades  sang  in  Lucy's  Wood, 
Two  he  had  heard  on  London  street — 
A  verb  and  a  noun  now  obsolete 
But  full  of  pith  in  Elizabeth's  reign — 
And  one  he  found  in  old  Montaigne. 

He  set  the  Saxon  words  beside 
The  high-born  Latin  words  of  pride. 
And  lo  !  the  ten  words  joined  together 
To  make  a  phrase  which  lives  forever. 
An  immortal  phrase  of  beauty  and  wit, 
A  luminous  thought  the  soul  of  it, 
But  with  no  baffling  wordy  fence 
Between  the  reader  and  the  sense. 


The  Shakespearean  Phrase 

Genius  finds  in  our  every-day  words 

The  music  of  the  woodland  birds. 

Discloses  hidden  beauty  furled 

In  the  common-place  stuff  of  the  every-day  world. 

And  for  her  highest  vision  looks 

To  the  world  of  men,  not  the  world  of  books. 


57 


REQUIESCAT 
//.  M.—  Obit  A.  D.  18—.  Aetat  25 

AS  one  born  out  of  his  due  time 
Oh  friend,  you  came  to  this  dull  age, 
Missing  your  lawful  heritage 
Of  music,  beauty,  color,  rhyme. 

To  bleak  New  England's  barren  shore 
You  came,  an  artist  out  of  place, 
Where  niggard  nature  grants  but  space, 
Too  poor  and  cold  to  grant  us  more. 

You  needed  background  for  your  thought, 
And  warmth,  and  depth,  and  joy  in  life, 
But  in  our  sordid  social  strife 
You  missed  the  vital  breath  you  sought. 

Your  richly-dowered  human  heart 
Starved  on  our  juiceless  mental  food, 
And  wandered  in  blank  solitude, 
And  lived  its  inner  life  apart. 

Homesick  of  soul,  your  nature  pined 
For  sunny  Florence,  or  for  Rome, 
And  sought,  but  found  no  native  home 
Among  your  kin  but  not  your  kind. 
58 


Requiescat 

The  brilliant  cousin  of  our  blood, 
The  Puritan,  whose  steel-blue  eyes 
Looked  into  yours  with  vague  surmise, 
Loved  you,  but  never  understood. 

And  so  her  love  was  but  a  pain, 
And  only  added  to  your  need  ; 
Or,  was  that  love  which  could  not  read 
A  nature  on  a  different  plane  ? 

For  love  could  look  behind  the  screen 

And  penetrate  with  subtle  sense, 

The  fine-wove  veil  of  reticence 

Which  screened  you  from  your  fellow-men. 

I  cannot  grieve  that  you  are  gone, 
0,  precious  soul  and  kindly  heart, 
Believing  you  are  less  apart 
Than  when  on  earth,  and  less  alone. 


THE  WARP  AND  WOOF 


FOR  us,  by  unseen  hands  the  web  of  life 
Is  wove, 
And  unseen  fingers  swiftly  move  along 

The  loom, 
And  ply  the  shuttle,  freighted  with  a  weft 

Of  love  ; 
A  golden  thread  shot  through  the  warp 

Of  doom — 
A  fine  wire  gleaming  bright  among 

The  threads, 
Which  makes  a  fabric  of  what  else 

Were  shreds. 

When  time  destroys  that  web,  he  saves  and  stores 

The  gold, 
For  it  is  precious  metal,  never  worn 

Nor  old. 


• 


PART  III. 
SONNETS 


THE  OUTER  SEA 


AS  sailors  in  some  narrow  land-locked  sea, 
Find  open  water  but  a  space  before 
Their  prow,  and  then  the  hills  on  either  shore 
Shut  off  the  reaches  that  beyond  may  be, 
So  men  look  out  on  life.     The  way  is  free 
How  far  we  cannot  tell ;  a  little  store 
Of  time  lies  open  to  us — then — no  more — 
The  walls  of  life  close  on  mortality. 

But  as  the  sailor  near  the  embracing  hills 

Can  feel  the  ground  swell  from  some  sea  beyond 
Whose  rhythmic  heaving  all  the  channel  fills 

With  slow  pulsations  from  the  vast  profound 
And  finds  a  passage  through,  so  death  may  be 
For  us,  a  gate  into  eternity. 


ACT  AND  DEED 


THE  Roman  Stoic  said,  "  I've  lost  a  day 
If  it  has  passed  unmarked  by  some  good  deed, 
Some  brother  helped  in  hour  of  direst  need, 
Or  cheered  by  kindly  word  on  rugged  way ; 
For  days  are  but  as  blanks,  on  which  men  may 
Engrave  a  record  for  the  gods  to  read, 
By  action  only,  since  gods  never  heed 
The  will  that  central  in  the  action  lay." 

What  shall  they  say  whose  power  to  act  is  lost, 
Poor,  pallid  ghosts  of  men,  whose  utmost  cost 
Is  spent  in  doubt  and  endless,  vain  surmise — 
Prostrate  before  a  deed  in  weak  surprise  ? 
They  lose  all  time,  and  are  but  dead  machines 
Whose  action  marks  no  day,  and  nothing  means. 


ICELAND 


O  RUGGED  land  with  hidden  heart  of  fire, 
Girt  by  the  northern  sea,  home  of  that  race 
To  which  thy  rocks  were  pleasant  as  the  place 
Of  feasting  is  to  lesser  men,  higher 
And  higher,  while  Heckla  lights  thy  funeral  pyre, 

The  shroud  is  drawn  by  inches  o'er  thy  face, 
The  ice  sheet  slowly  crawls  with  chill  embrace 
And  homes  and  fields  are  whelmed  in  ruin  dire  ! 

Oh,  what  a  living  death  !     Happier  far 
To  burn  in  clash  of  some  onrushing  star, 
To  know  glad  life  in  one  mad  moment  lost, 
Than  this  dull  close  of  chilling  eld  and  frost ! 
But  thus  they  say  the  world  will  meet  her  doom, 
Creeping,  half  conscious,  to  an  icy  tomb. 


i 


MODERN  THOUGHT 

OUR  souls  are  overweighed ;  we  have  bought 
A  barren  lore  and  know  no  one  thing  well. 
The  central  secrets  of  the  earth  and  hell. 
The  key  of  heaven,  divinity  inwrought 
In  nature's  heart,  the  hidden  hold  long  sought 
By  poet-priest  in  mediaeval  cell, 
Are  darker  than  before  ;  we  cannot  tell 
The  truths  that  Kempis  felt  and  Dante  taught. 

A  dusty  heap  of  facts  and  theories, 

Like  sand  which  clogs  men's  march  on  desert  plain, 
Weighs  down  our  thoughts,  blurs  sacred  mysteries  : 
Twere  wiser  far  to  raise  from  earth  our  eyes 
And  view  the  distant  mirage  once  again 
Although  books  say,  "  mere  vision  of  sick  brain." 


•• 


THE  SKY 


THIS  overarching,  stainless,  starry  dome, 
Which  everywhere  I  go  encloses  me, 
This  azure  veil  which  screens  infinity, 
Behind  which  I  once  thought  God  had  his  home, 
Through  modern  keen  analysis  has  come 
To  be  divested  of  divinity  ; 
For  science  proves  it  only  "  seems  to  be," 
And  is  but  "  bluish  rays  "  from  air-born  foam. 

'Tis  only  "  foggy  particles  "  that  hang  before 

The  empty  void  ;  'tis  mere  illusion  when 
We  think  we  see  the  sky  ;  soon  all  the  bars 

Of  sense  that  cheat  the  intellect  of  men 
Shall  be  removed.     0  Science,  we  implore, 
Arrest  your  march,  do  not  dethrone  the  stars ! 


••• 


SCIENCE 


SAY  not  that  science  is  irreverent, 
And  hurls  the  true  gods  from  their  ancient  seat. 
Truth  is  her  goal.     Her  set  face  is  intent 

With  single  thought  towards  nature's  last  retreat. 

Her  key  unlocks  the  secrets  of  old  world, 

She  reads  the  law  the  deep  of  time  concealed. 

Shows  in  the  seed  the  coming  plant  upfurled, 
Sees  in  the  past  the  plan  of  God  revealed. 

No  heart  can  now  recall  the  antique  mood 
Of  fervid  faith  and  frenzied  ecstasy, 

When  the  free  spirit  of  the  race  was  cowed 
Before  a  priest-created  deity. 

The  torch  of  science  casts  a  ray  beyond, 
Where  all  truth  centers  in  the  dim  profound. 


- 


THE  NEW  FAITH 


WHEN  I  believed  that,  "  God  lived  in  the  sky," 
And  I  was  told,  "  the  world  was  his  and  they 
That  dwelt  therein,"  God  seemed  not  far  away ; 
But  now  He  is  withdrawn.     Heart-sick,  men  try 
To  read  the  rocks  and  stars,  which  certify, 

"There  is  no  God  but  Force  and  Law."     No  ray 
Of  love  streams  from  the  firmament ;  no  day 
To  come  breaks  brighter  than  the  day  gone  by. 

Is  then  Thy  presence  chamber  far  from  men, 

O  God,  in  fathomless  eternity, 

Beyond  the  scope  of  thought  ?     Then  more  and  more 
We  turn  unto  Thy  son,  the  Christ,  who  bore 
Our  human  griefs,  and  walked  within  our  ken  ; 
A  MAN,  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 


TWO  TYPES 


ONE  journeys  pensive  through  the  deepening  gloom, 
That  darkens  over  all  the  rugged  road 
On  which  the  helpless  race  of  man  has  trod 
In  slow  procession  to  an  antique  tomb 
On  which  the  drooping  opiate  poppies  bloom, 

And  says  that  poison  snakes  and  horned  toad 
Are  truest  emblems  of  the  normal  mode 
Of  life  in  Nature's  all-creative  womb. 

Another  treads  life's  highway  cheerily — 

Finds  violets  by  summer  breezes  kissed, 
And  simple  wayside  flowers  fair  to  see  : 

Pleased  with  these  little  things  he  never  cares 
That  hope  is  left  behind  with  every  mile  he  fares  ; 
Near-sighted,  hopeful,  shallow  optimist ! 


MAN   PROPOSETH 


I  HAD  a  friend,  and  planned  with  him  to  lead 
A  life  withdrawn  from  strife  and  toil  and  care — 
To  stray  together  through  the  byways  where 
The  quiet  joys  are  found — where  worldly  greed 
Should  never  chill,  and  trade's  accursed  breed 
Should  never  taint  the  wild  and  wholesome  air 
Blown  from  the  distant  hills ;  and  fortune's  snare 
Should  not  be  spread  for  feet  from  fortune  freed. 

A  blight  is  on  those  hills  for  he  is  gone  ; 

They  seem  but  mounds  heaped  up  on  dead  men's  bones— 
The  moss-grown  boulders,  ranked  funereal  stones ; 
The  shady  by-path  leads  me  to  his  grave. 
Better  within  some  city  live  a  slave 
Than  here,  though  free,  but  friendless  and  alone. 


MORITURUS 


MY  children's  shouts  float  in  the  open  door, 
Blent  with  the  chirping  cricket's  merry  din, 
Fresh,  joyous  cries,  whose  music  is  akin 
To  nature's  sounds.     Ah,  what  has  life  in  store 
For  them  ?     Far  off  I  hear  a  sullen  roar, 

The  soulless  city's  ceaseless  cry,  wherein 
Is  raised  the  dull  refrain  of  grief  and  sin, 
Sad  minor  chords,  recurrent  evermore. 

But  I  must  leave  them  soon.     0  Time,  refrain  ! 
Thou  bring'st  cold  death,  who,  hid  among  thy  train, 

Is  pacing  nearer,  keeping  step  with  thee : 
I  see  his  calm  grey  eye  ;  I  pray  in  vain  : 

He  lifts  his  hand  and  beckons  unto  me. 

O  God,  my  Father,  Thou  their  Father  be ! 


,- 


EVOLUTION 


THE  sun  had  set,  and  in  the  mellow  light 
Suffusing  all  the  west — the  afterglow — 
One  star  was  faintly  shining,  hanging  low 
On  the  horizon's  edge  ;  advancing  night 
Drew  shadows  through  the  air  and  o'er  the  height ; 
Then  in  the  east  a  ruddy  fire  !  and  lo, 
New  light :  the  full-faced  moon  was  climbing  slow 
The  sullen  sky;  the  star,  one  moment  bright, 
Sank  trembling  down  the  void. 

Can  this  thing  be, 

That  from  our  sombre  life,  as  silently 
One  life  fades  out,  swung  down  by  cosmic  law, 
Which  lifts  another  up  ?     Do  all  things  draw 

Sequent  to  nature's  movement  ?  and  are  we 
But  parcel  of  the  earth,  like  rock  or  tree  ? 


73 


HISTORY  AND   POETRY 

THREE  men  seem  real  as  living  men  we  know : 
The  Florentine,  whose  face,  care-worn  and  dark, 
Rossetti  drew ;  the  Norman  duke,  "  so  stark 
Of  arm  that  none  but  him  might  bend  his  bow ;  " 
And  "  gentle  Shakespeare,"  though  enshrouded  so 
In  his  own  thought,  that  some  men  cannot  mark 
The  soul  his  book  reveals,  as  when  a  lark 
Sings  from  a  cloud,  unseen  by  all  below. 

But  still  more  real  than  these  seem  other  three 
Who  never  walked  on  earth  :  "  Hamlet  the  Dane," 
The  "  noble  Moor,"  the  cruel  Scottish  thane — 

Ambition's  thrall.     How  strange  that  they  should  be, 
Though  naught  but  figments  of  the  poet's  brain, 

Instinct  with  life,  and  yet  more  real  than  he ! 


SIR  WALTER 


THE  Critic  says  Romance  is  dead,  and  we 
Must  cease  to  read  her  tales  of  ancient  war, 
That  only  children  love  fair  fancy's  lore, 
For  "  fiction  must  reflect  reality." 
But  art  is  other  than  anatomy  : 

Romance  is  true  as  science  is — nay,  more ; 
Its  fair  mirage  portrays  a  haunted  shore, 
Outside  the  field  of  "  pen  photography." 

Therefore,  I  send  this  hail,  0  Scott,  to  thee 
And  to  the  sturdy  children  of  thy  pen, 
Peasant  and  peer,  true  women  and  brave  men- 
Bold  Quentin  Durward  and  sweet  Isabel, 
Meg  Merrilies  and  old  Mortality, 

Di  Vernon  and  the  Knight  of  Avenel. 


is 


TWO  POETS 


THE  austere  outlines  of  an  ancient  creed 
He  sicklied  o'er  with  modern  sentiment, 
And  scratched  his  name  on  Buddha's  monument 
In  dainty  characters,  that  all  might  read, 
As  men  paint  signs  on  mountain  sides  ;  then  freed 

From  shame,  the  Master's  seamless  garment  rent, 
And  patched  with  cheapest  thread,  to  market  sent 
For  this  he  wins  the  dilettante's  meed. 

Not  so,  0  Milton,  to  thy  lonely  heart 

The  poet's  task  appealed  ;  for  letters  then 

Were  not  a  trade  ;  serene,  you  dwelt  apart 

No  platform  singer  with  commercial  art, 

And  strove  to  justify  God's  ways  to  men, 

Scorning  the  methods  which  control  the  mart. 


;' 


THE  GLOBE  THEATRE 


A  WOODEN  shed  hard  by  the  river's  side, 
Close  pressed  by  squalid  homes  of  all  things  base 
And  cheap  amusements  of  the  populace, 
And  thronged  with  common  men,  a  motley  tide 
Of  gross  humanity,  shunned  and  decried 

By  priest  and  puritan — this  was  the  place 
Where  men  met  gentle  Shakespeare  face  to  face ; 
And  where  Art  bloomed,  disdained  by  vulgar  pride. 

So  have  I  seen  some  lovely  flower  to  spring 
Among  vile  weeds,  neglected  and  apart, 
And  catch  ethereal  grace  from  air  and  sky, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  "  slow-endeavoring  art  " 
Yet  grow,  by  its  own  law,  a  perfect  thing, 
Through  careless  nature's  potent  alchemy. 


77 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW  SELF 


BACK  through  the  years  I  look,  but  cannot  see 
My  Self ;  a  stranger  filled  my  place  and  bore 
My  face  and  name.     I  stand  tranced  on  the  shore 
Of  love's  new  world,  a  new  self — loving  thee. 
From  this  new  self,  love-crowned,  I  cannot  free 
My  older  self ;  so  much  love's  dower 's  more 
Than  that  which  it  endows  ;  its  boundless  store 
Holds  no  account  with  hope  or  memory. 

Therefore,  the  self  with  which  I  love  you  now 

Creates  a  past,  wherein  strange  figures  move — 

My  old  self  and  old  thoughts,  which  to  and  fro 
Flit  aimlessly.     This  new  self,  by  your  love 
Evoked,  looks  on,  as  on  some  vacant  show  ; 
So  unreal  seems  that  self  of  long  ago. 


- 


LOVE  AND  MEMORY 


^  rPOO  few,"  you  say,  "  the  days  for  love  to  grow 
1     Since  face  to  face  we  met,  for  all  sweet  flowers 

Come  slowly  to  the  light,  and  this  of  ours 
Is  but  of  yesterday  !  "     Ah,  say  not  so  : 
All  kindly  thoughts  and  all  we  come  to  know 

Of  loyalty  and  faith,  unfolds  our  powers 
For  gentle  love.     He  reckons  not  the  hours 
But  builds  on  memories. 

Long  years  ago 

When  my  young  heart  thrilled  at  some  poet's  song, 
'Twas  you,  I  reverenced  in  the  heroine  ; 
Twas  then,  though  far  apart,  we  grew  akin, 
Does  not  the  soul  of  Shakespeare's  Imogen, 
That  pure  and  queenly  soul,  severe  and  strong, 

Through  your  clear  eyes  look  on  the  world  again  ? 


WAS  I  CONTENT  BEFORE?" 


"B 


Sweetheart,  I  cannot  tell.     The  man  who  wakes 
And  sees  the  crimson  streak  where  morning  breaks 

When  the  grey  curtain  of  the  night  is  rent, 

Cannot  recall  the  dreams  that  darkness  sent. 

For  him  the  distant  hill  beyond  the  lakes, 
From  all  the  throbbing  light  new  beauty  takes, 

And  dreams  seem  night's  dismantled  wonderment. 

Nor  can  I  tear  out  from  my  soul's  embrace 

The  gentle  image  by  your  love  evoked, 

And  recreate  that  vague,  unpeopled  space 

Within  my  mind  where  blind  conjecture  groped 

And  phantom  dreams.     No  memory  can  displace 

The  substance  with  the  shadow  of  things  hoped. 


i 


PART   IV. 
HUMOROUS  VERSE 


-.. 


SONNETS  TO  SATAN 


No.   1 


GRAND  Devil  of  old  days,  where  hast  thou  fled  ? 
In  what  oblivious  limbo  dost  thou  lie, 
Inactive  with  thy  great  fraternity 
Of  fiends,  whilst  earth  remains  unvisited  ? 
On  what  food  has  our  noble  Satan  fed 

That  he  should  lose  his  ancient  energy, 
And  like  some  outworn  heathen  deity, 
Should  hide  with  Jove  and  Mars  his  discrowned  head  ? 

What  would  John  Milton  say  if  he  were  told 
That  age  had  made  thy  ardent  spirit  cold  ? 
Or  Doctor  Martin  Luther,  if  he  knew 

You'd  ceased  to  call  in  person  on  the  blest 
To  tempt  or  scare  ?    Why  they  would  say  that  you 
Now  found  the  world  so  bad,  you  liked  hell  best. 


• 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  2 


YOU  were  such  picturesque,  concrete  material 
For  painter's  pencil  or  for  poet's  pen, 
And  so  unique.    Take  you  for  all  in  all, 

We  shall  not  look  upon  your  like  again. 

You  had  a  quaint  and  quiet  humor,  too, 

A  mediaeval  flavor  hung  about  your  deeds 

That  gave  a  merry  tale  concerning  you, 

An  interest  which  our  modern  novel  needs. 

Besides,  it  must  have  been  a  pleasant  thing 
To  load  upon  a  scapegoat  all  one's  shame, 

And  make  one's  conscience  cease  disquieting 
By  simply  saying,  "  devil  take  the  blame." 

Fiend  of  our  fathers,  would  it  not  be  well 

To  spend  more  time  on  earth,  and  less  in  hell  ? 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  3 


ONCE  Burns  could  speak  of  you  as  "  Nickie  Ben, 
In  a  familiar,  off-hand  sort  of  way, 
And  tell  how  on  the  night  of  Halloween 

Stout  Tarn  o'  Shanter  saw  you  at  your  play. 

On  Hawthorne's  page,  a  humorous  half-belief 

In  midnight  revels  'neath  the  forest  trees 
Where  witches  danced  around  you,  gave  relief 
To  tales  of  spiritual  tragedies. 

Great  Goethe  used  you  in  a  weakened  form, 

As  Mephistopheles,  but  even  then, 
That  grand  Walpurgis  night  amid  the  storm 

Is  his  most  powerful,  poetic  scene. 

Our  dear,  departed  friend  gave  color,  tone, 
And  zest  to  art,  that's  lost  now  he  is  gone. 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  4 


WHEN  the  first  settlers  came  to  Boston  Bay 
You  were  a  "  power  to  be  felt  and  seen," 
Or  smelt  at  least.     Must  you,  too,  pass  away, 
And  only  folk-lore  keep  your  memory  green  ? 

For  still  in  every  town  a  "  devil's  hole" 
Or  "  devil's  rock  "  is  sacred  to  your  name, 

And  "  devil's  chair  "  or  "  devil's  pit  and  bowl  " 
Bears  testimony  to  your  ancient  fame. 

We  have  the  places  yet,  but  weakly  call 

Them  "  Bellvues  "  or  "  Belmonts  "  :  our  modern  taste 
For  thin  neo-romance  disguises  all 

The  infernal  flavor  of  the  good  old  past. 

How  much  more  strong  the  early-diabolic 
Nomenclature  than  modern  pseudo-classic ! 


6 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  5 


IT  gave  some  interest  to  a  thunder-storm 
To  feel  it  must  be  "  your  night  out,"  to  hear 
In  howling  winds  your  voice,  to  glimpse  your  form 
With  minor  fiends  and  demons  "  on  a  tear." 

What  is  a  tempest  now?    Throughout  the  West 
An  "  area  of  low  pressure  "  is  foretold 

In  penny  sheets  ;  its  course  laid  down,  at  best 
An  item  of  the  news  ;  not  so  of  old 

When  you  and  all  your  crowd  rode  on  the  blast, 
Whirling  beneath  its  sulphurous  canopy, 

And  yelled  to  laggard  witches  as  it  passed 
To  mount  and  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

You  gave  a  storm  artistic  emphasis, 
The  note  of  demon  energy  we  miss. 


; 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  6 


HOW  many  "  pleasing  shapes  "  you  used  to  wear ; 
Black  poodle,  wanton  goat,  elusive  rat  ; 
Though  your  unerring  taste  made  you  appear 
Most  frequently  in  guise  of  household  cat. 

Your  business  suit  of  horns  and  cloven  feet 
And  tail  a  trifle  long,  perhaps  might  be 

To  modern  taste  bizarre,  but  still  was  neat 
And  marked  by  individuality 

And  if,  as  fat  old  man  you  took  the  role 

Of  merchant,  bargaining  with  some  young  fool 

To  sign  a  bond  to  render  up  his  soul, 

Your  manners  were  those  of  the  "  fine  old  school. 

You  never  were  a  bore,  or  snob,  or  cad ; 
In  all  your  shapes  your  form  was  never  bad. 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  7 


WE  miss  you.     Neither  Pater-Noster  read 
Reversed,  nor  withered  witch  with  pentagon 
And  potent  spell  can  call  you  from  the  dead, 
Or  ransom  you  from  dull  oblivion. 

And  now  Napoleon  is  talked  of  more  than  you, 

Though  he  would  never  ask  so  great  a  name 

Were  he  alive.     Giving  each  fiend  his  due 

Writes  you  far  higher  on  the  scroll  of  fame. 

And  some  maintain  that  Borgia  was  your  peer, 
And  for  his  sake  they  pervert  history. 

He  was  a  devil  of  a  lower  sphere 

And  lacked  the  "  universal  quality." 

Napoleon  and  Borgia  combined, 

Compared  to  you,  lacked  breadth  and  force  of  mind. 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  8 


SOME  of  the  tales  we  read  concerning  you, 
As,  that  Saint  Dunstan  pulled  you  by  the  nose, 
The  best  historic  critics  judge  not  true, 

But  only  instances  of  how  tradition  grows. 

Those  mythic  fancies  cling  about  each  name 
That  rises  from  the  level  of  the  race, 

Like  Caesar,  Arthur,  Roland,  Charlemagne, 
As  ivy  garlands  hide  what  they  embrace. 

But  take  the  settled  facts  of  history, 

Interpret  all  the  myths  in  modern  mood — 

Your  character  comes  out  in  dignity, 

Like  the  eighth  Henry's  from  the  pen  of  Froude. 

You  need  no  whitewash  :  it  were  more  absurd 
To  paint  the  lily  or  to  blacken  Richard  third. 


Sonnets  to  Satan 


No.  9 


1SAY  it  is  a  shame  that  one  to  whom 
Our  age  owes  all  its  life-philosophy, 
Should  lie  forgotten  in  an  unmarked  tomb, 
No  statue  sacred  to  his  memory. 

You  should  be  sculptured  by  a  master's  hand, 
With  Baal  and  Mammon  on  the  side  of  thee, 

And  lesser  imps  beneath,  a  grotesque  band, 
Like  griffins  in  the  old-time  heraldry. 

And  then  perhaps  this  thoughtless,  careless  age 
Would  do  late  justice  to  your  services, 

And  own  the  source  of  its  great  heritage, 
Still  broadening  down  the  centuries. 

But  I,  at  least,  will  dedicate  this  feeble  verse 
To  thee,  whose  deeds  an  epic  should  rehearse. 


ANSWER  FROM   SATAN 


DEAR  friend,  where  do  you  live  ?     In  what  obscure 
Remote,  forgotten  hamlet  do  you  lead 
Your  sheltered  life,  that  you  should  be  so  sure 
In  your  absurd  belief  that  I  am  dead  ? 

I'm  less  in  evidence  than  when  I  ran 

The  brimstone  business  for  a  by-gone  age, 

For  modern  methods  suit  the  modern  man  ; 
Co-operation  now  is  all  the  rage. 

I'm  in  the  hands  of  a  great  syndicate, 

The  stock  is  held  in  small  lots  everywheres : 

Did  I  not  see  your  name  on  a  certificate  ? 
All  safe  investors  dabble  in  our  shares. 

Though  dividends  are  sometimes  passed  by  us, 
They're  paid  in  time  by 

Yours, 

Diabolus 


-• 


LEGEND   OF  A  GOOD  WOMAN 

SHE  "  did  her  duty,"  late  and  soon, 
'Twas  present  to  her  consciousness 
In  happiness  or  in  distress 
With  equal  force  it  drove  her  on. 

She  "  did  her  duty ;  "  did  it  so 
That  friends  and  family  all  thought 
Her  duty  was  just  what  she  ought 
To  feel  'twere  kinder  not  to  do. 

Her  conscience  was  a  dreadful  goad, 
Dreadful  the  most  to  dearest  friends, 
She  sought  to  reach  the  hardest  ends, 
And  reach  them  by  the  hardest  road. 

She  knew  no  rest  from  wearing  cares, 
For,  if  she  found  none  of  her  own, 
She  bustled  'round  about  the  town 
And  borrowed  some  to  work  on  shares. 

She  was  a  "great  executive," 
Though  not  so  great  as  busy  death, 
And  with  her  last  expiring  breath 
She  firmly  said,  "  I  mean  to  live." 


Legend  of  a  Good  Woman 

So,  at  her  funeral,  each  one 

Looked  at  the  rest  with  strange  surmise, 

All  overcome  with  mild  surprise 

To  find  the  world  still  running  on. 

And  to  another,  one  would  say, 

"  Twould  go  much  smoother,  seems  to  me, 

If  she  would  rise  to  oversee 

And  manage  things  in  her  old  way." 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  one 
With  such  a  spirit,  tempest-tossed, 
Should  rest,  her  energy  all  lost, 
And  acquiesce  in  all  that's  done.  " 

And  one  would  say,  "All's  for  the  best 
We  must  not  question  Providence 
That  looks  beyond  our  human  sense 
And  knows  when  mortals  need  a  rest. 

"  She  played  her  part ;  she  plays  it  still 
With  thorough  conscientiousness, 
Though  quiet  roles  to  us  seem  less 
Accordant  with  her  vigorous  will. 

"  But  on  the  Resurrection  Morn, 
She'll  hustle  round  among  the  dead, 
And  any  ghost  who  lies  in  bed 
Will  wish  he  never  had  been  born. 


Legend  of  a  Good  Woman 

"  When  the  last  trump  sounds  o'er  the  sea, 
She'll  jump,  and  say,  '  Come,  let  me  blow, 
O  Gabriel,  and  I  will  show 
You  how  to  sound  the  reveille  !  '  " 


So  on  her  tomb  they  cut  this  deep, 
''  Life's  fitful  fever  now  is  past, 
She  rests  in  peace,  at  last !  at  last ! 
Tread  softly,  friend,  and  let  her  sleep." 


9-. 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  SPRING  POET 


THREE  poets  came  sailing  out  of  the  west, 
Out  of  the  west  and  the  dying  day, 
Each  sang  the  song  that  he  loved  the  best : 
And  one  was  "  bearded  and  bold  and  young, 
And  one  was  fair  as  the  songs  he  sung, 
And  one  was  old  and  hoary." 

The  first  sang  a  song  of  knightly  deeds — 

Of  knightly  deeds  in  the  "  furious  fray," 

Of  "  castles  and  tourneys  "  and  "  gallant  steeds," 

Of  thoughts  and  hopes  of  ages  past, 

And  his  song  was  like  a  trumpet  blast 

From  the  mystical  source  of  glory. 

And  the  second  sang  a  ballad  drear — 

A  ballad  dread  of  a  "  lady  gay  " 

Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  "  yester  year," 

With  the  free  and  careless  charm  which  clings 

To  all  those  slight  and  simple  things 

From  the  fount  of  ancient  story. 

But  the  third  sang  a  song  about  the  Spring — 

About  the  Spring,  and  the  "  verdant  May," 

When  "the  grass  grows  green  "  and  "the  sweet  birds  sing. 

Two  pistol  shots  rang  on  the  startled  air ! 

And  the  others  arose  and  left  him  there 

With  his  "  Verses  on  Spring,"  "  fresh  and  gory." 


THE  HONEST  MAN  AND  THE  PHRENOLOGIST 

DR.  SPURTZHEIM-GALL  long  had  read 
The  character  from  the  shape  of  the  head. 

He  could  tell  by  feeling  a  stranger's  bumps 
Just  where  his  character  lay  in  lumps. 

A  pale  young  man  with  a  deep-set  eye 
Called  to  consult  him  professionally. 

The  doctor  carefully  felt  his  head, 
Consulted  his  charts,  and  then  he  said  : 

"  Music,  six,  and  language,  eight — 
The  higher  virtues  predominate. 

Honesty,  ten,  causality,  small, 
Deceitfulness,  almost  nothing  at  all." 

The  young  man  opened  his  pocket-book  ; 
A  ten-dollar  note  with  a  sigh  he  took ; 

Remarked  with  a  smile,  that  his  friends  all  knew 
That  he  was  "  honest,  through  and  through." 

The  doctor  returned  to  make  his  fee 
Eight  dollars  change  in  good  money. 

The  young  man  left  with  a  satisfied  face 
Since  his  character  had  a  solid  base. 

The  Doctor,  too,  looked  satisfied,  till 
The  day  he  tried  to  deposit  that  bill. 

For  the  teller  said  when  he  glanced  at  it, 
"This  ten-dollar  bill  is  counterfeit." 

MORAL 

Science  is  science,  but  it  cannot  read 
The  thoughts  inside  an  honest  man's  head. 

g  97 


THE  MARRYIN1  OF  DANNY  DEEVER 

WITH  APOLOGIES  TO  MR.   RUDYARD  KIPLING 


^  A  \  T HAT  is  the  organ  playing  for?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
V  V    "To  make  a  noise,  to  make  a  noise,"  the  dapper 

usher  said. 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  sad,  so  sad  ?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  I've  got  to  see  my  best  friend  spliced,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 

For  they're  marryin'  Danny   Deever,  you  can   hear  the  organ 

play, 

He's  given  up  his  freedom,  so  they've  fixed  the  church  up  gay, 
They're  playin'  of  the  weddin'  march  ;  this  is  his  weddin'  day  ; 
For  they're  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"  What  makes  those  front-pew  folks  look  round  ?  "  asked  the 

little  maid. 

"They  want  to  see  the  victim  quail,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 
•'  What  makes  'em  so  excited  ?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  They  like  to  see  the  noose  drawn  tight,"  the  dapper  usher 

said. 

They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever,  he's  marchin'  up  the  aisle, 
The  procession  is  a-movin',  slow-step  in  double  file  ; 
Danny's  feelin'  pretty  wretched,  he  wears  a  frightened  smile, 
They're  a-marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 


The  tMarryin'  of  Danny  Deever 

"  I  knew  him  when  a  happy  boy,"  said  the  little  maid. 
"  His  happy  days  are  over,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 
"  He  used  to  play  from  morn  to  night,"  said  the  little  maid. 
"  He  won't  get  much  more  chance  to  play,"  the  dapper  usher 
said. 

They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever,  he's  a-marchin'  to  his  fate, 
He  can't  escape  the  women  ;  they've  struck  a  solemn  gait, 
Do  what  he  could  to  shirk  it,  he  had  to  fill  his  date, 
They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"  Why  don't  he  break  and  run  for  life  ?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  They'd  capture  him  in  no  time,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 
"  Why  don't  he  send  a  sick  excuse  ?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  It  wouldn't  work  in  this  place,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 

They're  marryin'  Danny  Deever  ;  he's  whiter  than  a  sheet. 
They've  closed  on  him  in  front  and  rear  and  cut  of  his  retreat, 
For  fear  he'd  jump  across  the  pews  and  rush  into  the  street, 
While  they're  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

"  What's  that  so  white  a-standing  there  ?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  That  is  the  executioner,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 
"  What  makes  him  look  so  serious?  "  asked  the  little  maid. 
"  He's  dreadin'  what  he's  got  to  do,"  the  dapper  usher  said. 

They've  married  Danny  Deever,  you  can  hear  the  organ  play, 
They're  coming  down  the  aisle  again,  they're    marchin'  him 

away, 

The  minister  is  waitin' ;  he'll  want  his  fee  to-day. 
After  marryin'  Danny  Deever  in  the  mornin'. 

99 


A   LETTER  AND  ANSWER 
Question 

DEAR  B: — I've  been  hunting  all  creation 
For  the  following  quotation — 
"  Nothing  in  his  life  so  noble 
As  his  death  was  ;  "  if  no  trouble. 
Will  you  write  me  who  first  said  it  ? 
Somewhere  I  am  sure  I've  read  it, 
But  I  cannot  now  be  quite  sure 
When,  or  where,  or  why,  or  wherefore. 
Is  it  Latin  or  Teutonic  ? 
Wordsworthian  or  Byronic  ? 
French  or  English  or  Italian  ? 
Johnsonese  or  Machiavellian  ? 
Or  does  Johann  Wolfgang  Goethe 
Say  it  apropos  of  Werther  ? 

Yours,  A. 

Reply 
DEAR  A :  — 

Look  at  Macbeth  1 ,  4-8,  where  Malcolm  says  Cawdor 
Died  with  urbanity,  not  caring  a  moidoire 
For  the  civil-service-reforming  committee, 
Come  to  take  off  his  head  without  any  pity. 


A  Letter  and  Answer 

It's  true  Malcolm's  words  aren't  precisely  identical 
With  these  that  you  quote,  but  it's  clear  that  he  meant 

it  all. 

Now  whether  Shakespeare  cribbed  that  from  Tacitus, 
Bearing  such  a  resemblance  as  it  does 
To  the  latter's  remarks  on  the  Emperor  Otho, 
I  cannot  now  say  ;  but  I  certainly  know  though, 
That  I  shouldn't  much  blame  the  "Sweet  Swan  of  Avon" 
If  he  did  crib  good  things  from  an  old  Roman  haythen  ; 
For  whatever  he  took  he  would  always  better  it  sure 
By  the  force  of  his  art  into  straight  English  literature. 
Whenever  in  doubt  as  to  whom  to  give  credit, 
It's  sure  to  be  safe  to  assume  that  he  said  it, 
And  whatever  I  find  set  down  in  his  pages, 
I  say  is  his  own,  as  the  "  heir  of  the  ages." 

Yours,  B. 


THE  MODERN   ROMANS 

UNDER  the  slanting  light  of  the  yellow  sun  of  October, 
A  "gang  of  Dagos"  were  working  close  by  the  side  of 

the  car  track. 

Pausing  a  moment  to  catch  a  note  of  their  liquid  Italian, 
Faintly  I  heard  an  echo  of  Rome's  imperial  accents, 
Broken-down  forms  of  Latin  words  from  the  Senate  and  Forum 
Now  smoothed  over  by  use  to  the  musical  lingua  Romana. 
Then  came  the  thought,  Why,  these  are  the  heirs  of  the  con 
quering  Romans  ; 
These  are  the  sons  of  the   men  who  founded  the  Empire  of 

Cassar ; 

These  are  they  whose  fathers  carried  the  conquering  eagles 
Over  all  Gaul  and  across  the  sea  to  Ultima  Thule. 
The  race-type  persists  unchanged   in  their  eyes,  and  profiles 

and  figures — 

Muscular  short  and  thick-set,  with  prominent  noses,  recalling 
"Romanes  rerum  dominos,  gentemque  togatam." 
See,  Labienus  is  swinging  a  pick  with  rhythmical  motion  ; 
Yonder  one  pushing  the  shovel  might  be  Julius  Caesar, 
Lean,  deep-eyed,  broad-browed,  and  bald,  a  man  of  a  thousand  ; 
Further  along  stands  the  jolly  Horatius  Flaccus  ; 
Grim  and  grave,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  see  Cato  the  Censor ; 
And  the  next  has  precisely  the  bust  of  Cneius  Pompeius. 
Blurred  and  worn  the  surface,  I  grant,  and   the   coin  is  but 
copper ; 


The  [Modern  Romans 

Look  more  closely,  you'll  catch  a  hint  of  the  old  superscrip 
tion — 
Perhaps  the  stem  of  a  letter,  perhaps  a  leaf  of  the  laurel. 

On  the  side  of  the  street,  in  proud  and  gloomy  seclusion, 

"  Bossing  the   job,"  stood  a  Celt,  the   race  enslaved  by  the 

legions, 

Sold  in  the  market  of  Rome,  to  meet  the  expenses  of  Cassar. 
And  as  I  loitered,  the  Celt  cried,  "  '  Tind  to  your  worruk,  ye 

Dagos, 
Full  up  yer  shovel,   Paythro',  ye  haythen,  I'll  dock    yees    a 

quarther." 

This  he  said  to  the  one  who  resembled  the  great  Imperator ; 
Meekly  the  dignified  Roman  kept  on  patiently  digging. 

Such  are  the  changes  and  chances,  the  centuries  bring  to  the 

nations. 

Surely,  the  ups  and  downs  of  this  world  are  past  calculation. 
How  the  races  troop  o'er  the  stage  in  endless  procession ! 
Persian,  and  Arab,  and  Greek,   and   Hun,  and  Roman,  and 

Vandal, 

Master  the  world  in  turn  and  then  disappear  in  the  darkness, 
Leaving  a  remnant  as  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water. 
"  Possibly," — this  1  thought  to  myself — "  the  yoke  of  the  Irish 
May  in  turn  be  lifted  from  us  in  the  tenth  generation. 
Now  the  Celt  is  on  top,  but  time  may  bring  his  revenges  ; 
Turning  the  Fenian  down  once  more  to  be  '  bossed  by  a  Dago.' '' 


THE  GRECO-TROJAN  GAME 


FIRST  on  the  ground  appeared  the  god-like  Trojan  Eleven, 
Shining  in  purple  and   black,  with  tight  and  well-fitting 

sweaters, 

Woven  by  Andromache  in  the  well-ordered  palace  of  Priam. 
After  them  came,  in  goodly  array,  the  players  of  Hellas, 
Skilled  in  kicking  and  blocking  and  tackling  and  fooling  the 

umpire. 

All  advanced  on  the  field,  marked  off  with  white  alabaster, 
Level  and  square  and  true,  at  the  ends  two  goal  posts  erected. 
Richly  adorned  with  silver  and  gold  and  carved  at  the  corners, 
Bearing  a  legend  which  read,   "  Don't  talk  back  at  the  um 
pire  "- 

Rule  first  given  by  Zeus,  for  the  guidance  of  voluble  mortals. 
All  the  rules  of  the  game  were  deeply  cut  in  the  crossbars, 
So  that  the  players  might  know  exactly  how  to  evade  them. 

On  one  side  of  the  field  were  ranged  the  Trojan  spectators. 

Yelling  in  composite  language  their  ancient  Phrygian  war-cry  ; 

"Ho-hay-toe,  Tou-tais-tou,  Ton-tain-to;  Boomerah,  Boomerah, 
Trojans  !  " 

And  on  the  other,  the  Greeks,  fair-haired,  and  ready  to  halloo, 

If  occasion  should  offer  and  Zeus  should  grant  them  a  touch 
down, 

Breck  ek  kek-kek-koax,  Anax  andron,  Agamemnon!  " 


The  Greco-Trojan  Game 

First  they  agreed  on  an  umpire,  the  silver-tongued  Nestor. 
Long  years  ago  he  played  end-rush  on  the  Argive  eleven ; 
He  was  admitted  by  all  to  be  an  excellent  umpire 
Save  for  the  habit  he  had  of  making  public  addresses, 
Tedius,  long-winded  and  dull,  and  full  of  minute  explanations, 
How  they  used  to  play  in  the  days  when  Cadmus  was  half-back, 
Or  how  Hermes  could  dodge,  and  Ares  and  Phoebus  could 

tackle  ; 

Couched  in  rhythmical  language  but  not  one  whit  to  the  purpose. 
On  his  white  hairs  they  carefully  placed  the  sacred  tiara, 
Worn  by  the  foot  ball  umpires  of  old  as  a  badge  of  their  office, 
Also  to  save  their  heads,  in  case  the  players  should  slug  them. 
Then  they  gave  him  a  spear  wherewith  to  enforce  his  decisions, 
And  to  stick  in  the  ground  to  mark  the  place  to  line  up  to. 
He  advanced  to  the  thirty-yard  line  and  began  an  oration : 
"  Listen,  Trojans  and  Greeks  !     For  thirty-five  seasons, 
"  I  played  foot  ball  in  Greece  with  Peleus  for  half-back  and 

captain. 
"  Those  were  the  days  of  old  when  men  played  the  game  as 

they'd  orter. 

"  Once,  I  remember,  ^Eacus,  the  god-like  son  of  Poseidon, 
"  Kicked  the  ball  from  a  drop,  clean  over  the  city  of  Argos. 
"  That  was  the  game  when  Peleus,  our  captain,  lost  all  his  front 

teeth ; 
"  Little  we  cared  for  teeth  or  eyes  when  once  we  were  warmed 

up. 
"  Why,  I  remember  that  >Eacus  ran  so  that  no  one  could  see 

him, 


105 


The  Greco-Trojan  Game 

"  There  was  just  a  long  hole  in  the  air  and  a  man  at  the  end 

on  't. 
"  Hercules  umpired  that  game,   and    1   noticed  there  wasn't 

much  back-talk." 

Him  interrupting,  sternly  addressed  the  King  Agamemnon: 

"  Cease,  old  man;  come  off  your  antediluvian  boasting; 

"  Doubtless  our  grandpas  could  all  play  the  game  as  well  as 

they  knew  how. 
"  They  are  all  dead,  and  have  long  lined  up  in   the  fields  of 

Elysium  ; 
"  If  they  were  here  we  would  wipe  up  the  ground  with  the  rusty 

old  duffers. 
"  You  call  the  game,  and  keep  your  eye  fixed  on  the  helmeted 

Hector. 
"  He'll  play  off-side  all  the  while,  if  he  thinks  the  umpire  don't 

see  him ! " 
Then  the  old  man  threw  the  lots,  but  sore  was  his  heart  in  his 

bosom. 
"  Troy  has  the  kick-off,"  he  said,   "the  ball   is  yours,  noble 

Hector." 

Then  he  gave  him  the  ball,  a  prolate  spheroid  of  leather, 
Much  like  the  world  in  its  shape,  if  the  world  were  lengthened, 

not  flattened, 
Covered  with  well-sewed  leather,  the  well-seasoned  hide  of  a 

bison, 

Killed  by  Lakon,  the  hunter,  'ere  bisons  were  exterminated. 
On  it  was  painted  a  battle,  a  market,  a  piece  of  the  ocean, 
Horses  and  cows  and  nymphs  and  things  too  many  to  mention. 


'The  Greco-Trojan  Game 

Then  the  heroes  peeled  off  their  sweaters  and  put  on  their 

nose-guards, 

Also  the  fiendish  expressions  the  great  occasion  demanded. 
Ajax  stood  on  the  right ;  in  the  center  the  great  Agamemnon ; 
Diomed  crouched  on  the  left,  the  god-like  rusher  and  tackier, 
Crouched  as  a  panther  crouches,  if  sculptors  do  justice   to 

panthers. 
Crafty  Ulysses  played  back,  for  none  of  the  Trojans  could  pass 

him, 

All  the  best  Greeks  were  in  line,  but  Podas  Okus  Achilleus, 
Who  though  an  excellent  kicker  stayed  all  day  in  his  section. 

Hector  dribbled  the  ball,  then  seized  it  and  putting  his  head 

down, 

And,  as  a  lion  carries  a  lamb  and  jumps  over  fences- 
Dodging  this  way  and  that  the  shepherds  who  wish  to  remon 
strate — 

So  did  the  son  of  Priam  carry  the  ball  through  the  rush  line, 
Till  he  was  tackled  fair  by  the  full-back,  the  crafty  Ulysses. 
Even  then  he  carried  the  ball  and  the  son  of  Laertes 
Full  five  yards  till  they  fell  to  the  ground  with  a  deep  indenta 
tion 
Where  one  might  hide  three  men  so  that  no  man  could  see 

them — 
Men  of  the  present  day,  degenerate  sons  of  the  heroes — 

Now,  when    Pallas  Athene  discovered  the  Greeks  would  be 

beaten, 
She  slid  down  from  the  steep  of  Olympus  upon  a  toboggan. 

107 


The  Greco-Trojan  Game 

Sudden  she  came  before  crafty  Ulysses  in  guise  like  a  maiden  ; 
Not  that  she  thought  to  fool  him,  but  since  Olympian  fashion 
Made  the  form  of  a  woman  good  form  for  a  goddess'  assump 
tion. 

She  then  spoke  to  him  quickly,  and  said,  "  O  son  of  Laertes, 
Seize  thou  the  ball ;  I  will  pass  it  to  thee  and  trip  up  the  Trojan." 
Her  replying,  slowly  re-worded  the  son  of  Laertes — 
"  That  will  I  do,  O  goddess  divine,  for  he  can  outrun  me." 
Then  when  the  ball  was  in  play,  she  cast  thick  darkness  around  it. 
Also  around  Ulysses  she  poured  invisible  darkness. 
Under  this  cover,  taking  the  ball  he  passed  down  the  middle, 
Silent  and  swift,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unblocked,  and  untackled. 
Meanwhile  she  piled  the  Greeks  and  the  Trojans  in  conglomer 
ation, 
Much  like  a  tangle  of  pine-trees  where  lightning  has  frequently 

fallen, 

Or  like  a  basket  of  lobsters  and  crabs  which  the  provident  house 
wife 

Dumps  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  vainly  endeavors  to  count  them, 
So  seemed  the  legs  and  the  arms  and  the  heads  of  the  twenty- 
one  players. 

Sudden  a  shout  arose,  for  under  the  cross-bar,  Ulysses, 
Visible,  sat  on  the  ball,  quietly  making  a  touch-down  ; 
On  the  tip  of  his  nose  were  his  thumb  and  fingers  extended. 
Curved  and  vibrating  slow  in  the  sign  of  the  blameless  Egyp 
tians. 

Violent  language  came  to  the  lips  of  the  helmeted  Hector, 
Under  his  breath  he  murmured  a  few  familiar  quotations, 
Scraps  of  Phrygian  folk-lore  about  the  kingdom  of  Hades  ; 


The  Greco-Trojan  Game 

Then  he  called  loud  as  a  trumpet,  "  I  claim  foul,  Mr.  Umpire !  " 
"  Touch-down  for  Greece/'  said  Nestor,   "  'twixt  you  and  me 

and  the  goal-post 
"  I  lost  sight  of  the  ball  in  a  very  singular  manner." 

Then  they  carried  the  sphere  back  to  the  twenty-five  yard  line, 

Prone  on  the  ground  lay  a  Greek,  the  leather  was  poised  in  his 
fingers — 

Thrice  Agamemnon  adjusted  the  sphere  with  deliberation  ; 

Then  he  drew  back  as  a  ram  draws  back  for  deadly  encounter. 

Then  he  tripped  lightly  ahead,  and  brought  his  sandal  in  contact 

Right  at  the  point ;  straight  flew  the  ball  right  over  the  cross 
bar, 

While  like  the  cries  of  pygmies  and  cranes  the  race-yell 
resounded : 

"  Breck-ek  kek-kek-koax,  Anax  andron,  Agamemnon!  " 


109 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  CREDIT 


IN  the  early  days  of  the  human  race 
When  "  the  chase  "  as  yet  was  really  the  chase. 
Before  the  bow  had  been  invented, 
And  men  were  forced  to  be  contented 
With  a  club  or  spear  chipped  out  of  stone 
To  kill  the  game  when  they  had  run  it  down  ; 
Nimrod  came  to  the  wayside  cavern 
Where  Methuselah  kept  his  tavern 
'Neath  the  same  old  sign  "  since  the  memory  of  man 
That  phrase  then  meant  a  longer  span 
Than  now,  for  two  hundred  and  ten 
Was  the  voting  age  for  primitive  men, 
And  the  older  ones  remembered  with  ease 
The  events  of  seven  centuries. 

Nimrod  was  cold  and  hungry  and  mad, 

As  he  well  might  be  with  the  luck  he  had  had, 

He  had  followed  the  track  of  a  great  cave-bear 

For  miles  and  miles  and  found  the  lair, 

But  the  animal  gone  he  knew  not  where. 

He  had  thrown  in  vain  his  very  best  spear 

Into  the  neck  of  a  dinothere, 

For  the  brute  turned  round  and  hunted  him 

Into  the  Tigris,  and  made  him  swim 

To  the  other  bank,  when  a  sabre-toothed  tiger 


The  Origin  of  Credit 

Showed  a  great  desire  to  put  him  inside  her, 
And  he  had  to  climb  a  cretaceous  palm 
To  save  himself  from  bodily  harm. 

Tired  and  hungry  he  sat  him  down 
At  one  of  the  tables  of  rough-hewn  stone ; 
From  the  inner  cave  was  wafted  up 
The  ordor  of  megatherium  soup  ; 
A  waiter  approached  with  deep  genu- 
Flexions  and  brought  him  the  menu, 
A  pile  of  bricks  with  pictures  rude 
With  every  kind  of  diluvian  food. 

Nimrod  ordered  moa  on  toast 

And  a  couple  of  quarters  of  dinothere  roast. 

These  soon  disappeared,  for  primitive  man 

Was  built  on  a  grand  commodious  plan  ; 

His  appetite  was  made  to  gauge 

The  monstrous  fauna  of  the  age. 

Then  the  waiter  brought  him  a  piece  of  stone 
With  cuneiform  characters  scratched  thereon. 
This  was  the  bill  and  meant  that  he 
Must  hand  over  some  of  the  iron  money 
Which  Tubal  Cain  forged  for  all  Chaldee. 
Trust  was  unknown  so  long  B.  C., 
And  in  those  days  men  always  paid 
For  what  they  ate,  in  cash  or  trade. 


The  Origin  of  Credit 

Nimrod  felt  in  his  purse  of  skin 

But  not  a  coin  he  found  therein  ; 

For  a  moment  he  knew  not  what  to  do 

In  an  emergency  utterly  new — 

His  bosom  heaved,  his  eye  grew  dim, 

A  great  conception  rose  in  him, 

A  financial  germ  stirred  in  his  breast  ; 

At  first  it  could  not  be  expressed, 

Then  with  an  effort,  thus  spoke  he, 

"Charge  it you,  charge  it  to  me." 

In  those  six  words  there  lay  upfurled 

The  destiny  of  the  business  world  ; 

The  guests  all  felt  their  potency. 

And  vaguely  murmured,  "  Charge  it  to  me," 

Though  no  one  knew  what  the  meaning  might  be. 

In  the  cavern's  depths  the  pallid  cooks 

Re-echoed  them  with  questioning  looks, 

While  the  scullions  whispered  fearfully 

"  Nimrod  said,  ' you,  charge  it  to  me.'  " 

The  waiter  retreated  unto  the  host 

And  said,  "  Charge  Nimrod  with  moa  on  toast." 

His  voice  was  hollow,  his  face  forlorn, 

For  the  great  idea  of  CREDIT  was  born, 

And  thus  our  poor  humanity 

Is  wrenched  with  fearful  agony 

When  a  new  and  epoch-making  thought 

Into  the  world  of  men  is  brought. 


The  Origin  of  Credit 

The  old  man  shuddered  and  then  sat  still 

Trying  to  think  how  to  enter  a  bill ; 

At  seven  hundred  one  can't  seize 

With  readiness  on  new  idees, 

All  night  he  thought,  and  the  next  day 

He  said,  "  I  cannot  change  my  way. 

'Tis  now  six  hundred  years,  forsooth, 

Since  I  first  cut  my  wisdom  tooth. 

Shut  up  the  shop,  I  will  go  west 

And  camp  out  where  it  suits  me  best." 

In  this  the  old  man  did  "  attain 

To  something  of  prophetic  strain." 

And  when  he  died,  in  his  assets 

They  found  no  schedule  of  bad  debts  ; 

And,  since  his  day,  experience 

Has  proved  that  he  possessed  horse-sense. 

Bradstreet's  reports  prove  that  our  age 
Could  learn  much  from  the  ancient  sage. 


ON  A  CHRISTMAS  BOX  OF  -HENRY  CLAYS" 


WHEN  the  dove  flew  back  to  the  water-logged  ark  and 
brought  in  her  beak  the  bud, 
The  one  green  thing  that  proved  there  was  life  'neath  the  waste 

of  the  mundane  mud, 
Young  Japheth  jeered,  and  black  Ham  sneered,  but  Shem  said 

never  a  word, 

For  none  of  the   three  had  the  least  idee  of  the  worth  of  the 
gift  of  the  bird. 

But  Noah  stripped  off  the  fresh,  green  leaves  and  dried  them 

on  the  stove — 
Though  a  sailor  rough,  he  was  up  to  snuff,  this  prudent  diluvian 

cove — 
Then  he  rolled  them  tight  and  got  a  light  from  the  flame  of  the 

binnacle  lamp, 
"  Get  under  my  lee,  you  boys,"  said  he,  "  a  cigar  smokes  best 

when  it's  damp." 

"I   don't   much  car',"  said  this  ancient  tar,  "  how  long  this 

v'yage  is, 
So  be  it  I  shan't  be  out  of  this  plant,  in  which  lies  hope  and 

bliss. 

Head  the  old  boat  so'th-east  by  so'th,  that  bird  was  pinted  no'th 
If  we  anchor  at  all  we'll  make  a  land  fall  where  tobacco's  a 

natural  growth." 

"4 


On  a  Christmas  Box  of  "Henry  Clays" 

Then  the  boys  agreed  that  the  fragrant  weed,  which  the  bird 

had  brought  from  the  shore, 
Was   the   very  best  thing  any  bird  could  bring,  to  prove  it 

would  rain  no  more  ; 
For   peace   and  good-will    now  seemed   to  fill  their  father's 

rugged  breast ; 
"  Foh  suah,"  said  Ham,  "  tobacco  am  the  herb  of  peace  and 

rest." 

And  since  that  time,  in  every  clime,  the  smoke  of  this  plant 

has  been 

A  solace  sweet,  hard  times'  defeat,  for  all  life-faring  men  ; 
But  never  less  ill  does  it  fill  the  bill  than  on  a  Christmas  day, 
When  one's  Christmas  box  is  a  box  of  cigars  and  the  brand  is 

"  Henry  Clay." 


THE  PERFECT  HORSE 


THROUGHOUT  the  realm  of  Haroun-al-Rasched, 
For  equine  grace  no  horse  was  like  the  steed 
Of  Mufti  Bey.     His  action,  style  and  speed, 
His  silky  hide,  short  back,  round  hoofs,  clean  head, 
Bright  eye,  small  ears,  proclaimed  him  thoroughbred — • 
In  short,  the  perfect  type,  all  men  agreed, 
Unmatched  for  color,  symmetry  and  breed. 
This  horse  had  but  one  fault — he  was  quite  dead. 

This  "  modern  verse,"  which  flows  so  fluently, 
Reminds  one  of  that  "  perfect  horse."    The  whole 
Has  color,  form,  "  technique,"  the  artist's  goal 
In  "  Cosmopolitan  "  or  "  Century," 
But  somehow  seems  to  lack  the  living  soul 
Without  which  verse  is  but  the  corpse  of  poetry. 


116 


SONNET  IN  THE  "OBSCURE  STYLE" 

NOW  could  I  take  a  volume  from  the  row 
And  hurl  it  in  the  face  of  Destiny, 
Retreating  backward  from  the  fair  to-be 
Within  a  virgin  mask  of  polar  snow, 
Where  all  we  hope  to  learn  or  come  to  know 
Is  but  the  echo  of  a  by-gone  fantasy 
Whereon  rise  glimpses  of  some  Arctic  Sea, 
Untossed,  uncrumpled  by  no  tidal  flow. 

"  What  do  I  mean  ?  "  dear  Philistine,  you  ask  ! 
To  have  a  meaning  is  no  poet's  task : 
Just  let  that  octave  nestle  in  your  soul 
If  it  can  comprehend  a  cryptic  whole. 
I  furnish  rhymes  and  fancy  words,  all  pat, 
As  for  the  sense,  of  course,  you  furnish  that ! 


117 


TO  THE  EARTH   IN  JANUARY 

SEE  here,  O  Earth  ;   just  mend  your  pace, 
Hump  yourself  for  a  month  or  so, 
Till  you  pass  this  cold  and  frosty  place, 
This  dreary  region  of  ice  and  snow. 

There's  a  part  of  your  orbit,  O  Earth,  you  know, 

Where  past  the  Ram  and  the  Bull  you  climb 
Now,  that's  a  place  you  might  go  slow, 
If  you  got  ahead  of  your  schedule  time. 

This  steady  progress,  day  by  day. 

Has  a  note  of  sameness  ;  you  really  must 
Show  a  burst  of  speed  'till  you  get  to  May ; 

You've  got  it  in  you  to  "  up  and  dust." 

You  do  things  in  mysterious  ways, 

In  many  regards  you're  wiser  than  we, 

But  I  really  think  you  could  gain  some  days 
If  you'd  throw  off  some  of  your  gravity. 

You're  a  wise  old  Earth,  I  will  agree, 

Your  charges  are,  "  all  the  traffic  will  bear," 

But  regard  for  your  passengers,  seems  to  me, 

Dictates  more  speed  at  this  time  of  the  year. 

Let's  hurry  up  and  have  'em  through, 

These  weary  weeks  of  wintry  dearth  : 

When  the  mercury  rises  to  eighty-two. 

Jog  along  as  slow  as  you  please,  O  Earth  ! 


THE  EMU'S  PARTY 
[FOR  THE  CHILDREN] 

AN  ancient  maiden  Emu 
Had  a  breezy  country  villa, 
With  an  extensive  sea-view, 

On  the  south  coast  of  Australia. 

This  Emu's  tastes  were  social, 

And  her  heart  was  warm  and  kindly 
So  she  gave  a  children's  party, 

And  sent  her  cards  out  blindly 

To  the  Dodos  and  the  Parrots 

And  the  Vultures  and  the  Sea-gulls, 
And  thoughtlessly  included 

Six  little  unfledged  Eagles. 

Then  she  called  on  Madam  Duck-bill 

At  her  home  beside  the  water, 
And  proceeded  with  effusion 

To  invite  her  infant  daughter. 

"I  will  take  care,  my  dear  madam, 

If  you  will  be  so  good 
As  to  trust  us  with  your  Susie, 

That  she  eats  the  plainest  food, 


The  Emu's  Party 

"Some  simple  vermin  chowder 

Or  only  ants  on  toast, 
With  smothered  flies  in  honey, 

And  a  tender  larvae  roast ; 

"Mashed  angle-worms  and  spiders, 

Or,  if  you  think  it  best, 
Grub  soup  with  vermicelli, 

Which  is  easy  to  digest. 

"She  shall  be  at  home  by  bed-time, 
At  any  hour  you  choose  " 

Said  Mrs.  Duck-bill,  solemnly, 

"Have  you  asked  the  Kangaroos? 

"Why,  no;  the  thought,  dear  madam, 
Had  not  entered  in  my  head  : 

I  have  but  slight  acquaintance  with 
That  fore-shorten'd  quadruped." 

"Then  I'm  afraid,  Miss  Emu, 

That  Susie  can  not  go  : 
Her  grandpa  was  a  mammal 

Well  connected  as  you  know. 

"She  can  never  know  wild  Pigeons, 

Nor  those  children  of  the  Vulture, 

Who  seem  to  be  deplorably 
Incapable  of  culture." 


The  Emu's  Party 

"If  that's  the  case,  dear  madam, 

We'll  close  this  interview. 
My  friends  are  birds,  and  so  am  I," 

Said  the  dignified  Emu. 

"I'm  sure  I  know  the  Eagles, 

And  many  others,  who 
Move  in  vastly  higher  circles 

Than  that  purse-proud  Kangaroo. 

"Then  the  Parrots  and  the  Pigeons 
Have  a  regular  family  tree  : 

No  animals  are  higher  born,  nor  have 
A  better  pedigree. 

"There's  my  grand-uncle  Ostrich 

Can  hold  his  head  as  high 
As  any  wealthy  mammal, 

And — I  wish  you,  ma'am,  good-bye." 

So  little  Susie  Duck-bill 

Was  forced  to  play  alone 
By  the  artificial  altitude 

Of  her  mother's  social  tone. 

She  could  see  the  Parrots  swinging, 
Hear  the  little  Eagles  squeal, 
And  thought  "I  wish  we  Duck-bills 
Wern't  so  fearfully  genteel. 


The  Emu's  Party 

But  when  next  week  the  Kangaroos 
Gave  their  hop  and  fancy  ball, 

This  ambitious  Madam  Duck-bill 
Received  no  cards  at  all. 

"We  can  meet  no  oviparii," 

Said  the  leading  Kangaroos, 

"It's  a  cheap  and  retail  method 
Which  the  lower  order  use." 

"The  Duck-bills  may  be  in  the  swim, 
The  creatures  use  four  legs, 

But  we  draw  the  social  line  at  those 

Whose  grandmas  laid  fresh  eggs." 

"  By  the  fore-legs  of  our  fathers, 
Badge  of  our  noble  birth  ; 

By  the  pouch  of  the  marsupials 
That  dates  from  elder  earth  ; 

"  We  must  rigidly  exclude 

All  novel  combinations, 
Admit  within  our  circle 

No  nondescript  creations." 

MORAL : 

This  fable  teaches  all  men, 

And  they  may  read  who  run, 

That  the  socially  exclusive 

Miss  heaps  and  heaps  of  fun. 


TIME  AND  1 

OLD  TIME  and  I  went  into  trade  ; 
I  put  in  my  hopes  and  visions  fair ; 
Old  Time  had  nothing,  but  he  said 

He'd  bring  experience  as  his  share. 

And  now  we're  closing  the  business  up, 

No  treasure  falls  to  my  lot, 
For  Time  has  taken  my  youth  and  hope  ; 

The  "  experience  "  I  have  got. 

He  wants  to  get  some  younger  chaps 

To  carry  his  business  on. 
And  hints,  "  I'd  better  retire,  perhaps," 

Though  I'm  willing  to  let  it  run. 

But  I  can't  complain  of  him  a  mite, 
He's  allowed  me  to  overdraw, 

He's  tended  to  business  day  and  night 
And  "  acted  according  to  law." 

I've  wasted  some  chances  he  brought,  'tis  true, 
But  he's  never  "  gone  back  "  on  me, 

For  he  always  turns  up  something  new, 

"  Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  is  his  idee. 

And  when  the  dissolution's  signed 

And  our  partnership  comes  to  an  end, 

I  hope  that  he'll  find  it  in  his  mind 
To  "  give  me  a  recommend." 

123 


DATE  DUE 


CAYLORO 


M 


